


But a Letter

by PAW_07



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Mild Language, Mistaken Gender, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, The Talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 20:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 23,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2082519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAW_07/pseuds/PAW_07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Simmons went through with a  threat to change Grif into a ‘female’ in the Red Army's records while deleting the Blues? It is but a letter. Hilariousness, for everyone but Grif, ensues. S6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. F is for Fuck-It-We-Are-All-Dead-Anyways

**Author's Note:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu.

What is a letter? What is a letter?

A little frittle-frattle and just a little hate,

One might find themselves in an very awkward place.

…

“You wouldn't dare.”

“Oooh, yes I would. That would teach your lazy ass!”

“Didn't Sarge give you something better to do than fuck with my personal records,” grumbled Grif as he glared at the maroon soldier, light reflecting off the two Reds as they stood before the console at Command. The group of Reds was waiting for Washington's sign … and trying not to break anything too important in the meantime.

“Do I honestly look like a Gracie Lou Freebush to you?” said Grif sarcastically as he watched Simmons type over Dexter Grif in his personnel files. “If you are going to give me a chick's name, at least make it something classy … like Vivian Ward.”

For a moment there was an awkward silence, Simmons just staring at Grif and Grif just staring at Simmons. It was as if they were thinking the same thing. The silence might have lasted forever, an eternity of Red facing down Red in an epic stalemate of a staring that no one would ever be able to win because they both had helmets on. And they were both idiots, but what else was new?

“I can't believe I'm saying this … but I think I actually miss Donut,” admitted Grif, much to his own horror.

The maroon soldier's shoulders dripping down slightly, Simmons agreed, “Yeah, I miss him too … even with all the romance comedies.”

There was another silence, before Simmons turned his attention back to the screen, stating, “Well, that settles it. Meadow-Star Prudance Gaylord will be your new name Grif. I hope you enjoy being tacky.”

“What kind of name is that?” interrupted Grif, his voice whining. “Is Meadow-Star even a real name? Isn't that more like two names? For that matter a chicks name? It sounds like the name to an incense more than a person.”

“We have chickens. I love chickens. They are fluffy and poop out Easter eggs.”

For a moment the two red soldiers stood very still, staring at the screen as if too horrified to turn around, but slowly they both did staring in little to no surprise at the only blue in the immediate area: Caboose.

“Hi. Where are the chickens?”

Grif could basically feel the slow grin consuming the other Red's face under his helmet and he automatically stated, “No. No. NO. NO!”

“Hey Caboose,” said Simmons, ignoring the slightly squeaky tone Grif’s voice had picked up. “What kind of girly name do you think Grif should have? I like Meadow-Star Prudance Gaylord? How about you?”

Caboose stood there, helmet slightly titled up as if he was thinking. Then, he simply stated, “I like the name Bambi. It is a pretty name. My mom had that name and she was very popular. She liked dancing. She danced a lot with a guy named Pole.”

Simmons actually snorted at that, Grif wondering if he could get over his laziness enough to actually smack the maroon soldier with the butt of his gun. In the end, he could not gather the energy and instead turned his attention to Caboose.

“Did you just say what I think you said?” asked Grif, not really that surprised given his own mother.

“I … don't know. Did I say something?”

The two Reds stared at the Blue for a moment, Simmons finally interrupted, “You know what. I really like Bambi or how about Candy? Yeah, Candy. Classy.”

“Wait …” said Caboose, as if his brain had finally caught up to him; the Blue stood there a moment staring at the two Reds as if he had just understood the meaning of the universe and was blown away by an incomprehensible truth. “Oh … my … god. Are you saying Tucker was lying to me?! The yellow armored one is a girl?! Tucker said that just because you were yellow, did not make you a girl, but I knew you were a girl because girls like the color yellow. And, you have a very pretty voice.”

Simmons actually started cough-laughing in his helmet and Grif was left there standing, completely still in horror.

“B-b-but I’m orange! _Oooorange_. And-and I totally sound like I guy! _Don’t I sound like a guy Simmons_?” said Grif, his voice rising a few octaves.

Simmons was now leaning against console, try to keep in his laughter as choked chuckles escaped his helmet. This, of course, gained the attention of Sarge, and the older soldier walked over to the three, staring as Simmons clutched his sides trying to breathe and not laugh hysterically at the same time.

“What the Sam-Hill is going on here? Simmons! Don’t you have a job to do soldier! We have to delete those damn dirty Blues, and you,” said Sarge as he turned his attention to the only Blue in their company. “Didn’t we tell you to go other there and stare out that window or something?”

Caboose, as distracted as ever, merely said, “Okay.”

“And you, scumbag, stop distracting Simmons or it’s a shotgun to the face!” threatened Sarge to the still flabbergast simulation soldier. “In fact, you should stand by the door like a living meat shield. That way, when we are finally discovered, your screams of a horrific and grizzly death will give us the few precious seconds we need for a head start so we can make a valiant escape!”

Grif sighed as he glared at the maroon soldier that was slowly collecting himself, “Yes sir. I’ll go stand by the stupid door. Maybe I can even catch a nap before we all die.”

Then, almost as if on cue to ignore any irritating wait time that the narrator might have been too lazy to find something to fill with, an alarm rang throughout the base.

“Does anyone else hear that?” asked Caboose.

“Yes. We hear it Caboose,” said Grif as he backed away from the door he had been readying himself to nap against.

“Simmons, did you do that?”

Humming for a moment, Simmons answered, “I don’t think so. Hope not.”

“Um, Red guys,” said Caboose as he watched a white armored guy start running toward the building they were held up in. “Uhm, white guys are coming? Aaand, they look mad.”

Suddenly, the building shook, dust and cement raining down on them in little flakes, the sounds of grenades and gunfire echoing in the background.

“Really mad.”

“Grif, close those shutters!”

“On it!” replied Grif.

Getting back on the ball, Simmons hands racing over the keyboard like the true dork he was, he turned to Sarge and squeaked, “Here, I got it! This is every bit of information about the Blues and their soldiers!”

Coming up behind the brownnoser, Simmons quickly dragged Grif’s files into a tab, showing only the gathered data on the Blues as he delightfully answered, “Here, I got it! This is every bit of information about the Blues and their soldiers.”

“Can you erase it?”

Titling his head, dwelling on it for perhaps a moment, Simmons answered, “I can, but Sarge maybe we should think about this for a moment. What happens if we deleted the Blues?”

Not even missing a beat, Sarge interrupted, “It means they never existed. Yoink!”

A moment later, BLUES DELETED, flashed across the screen.

Simmons, his speech about what it meant to be Red and what it meant to be Blue killed before he could even clear his throat, choked suddenly, “S-sir! But…”

“Enough shortcakes. We need to get moving, get ready for battle, kill us some nonexistent Blues,” chuckled Sarge at the last line. “Now, get off that computer, numb nuts. It’s a good time to die!”

Simmons watched Sarge cock his shotgun and found himself stalling before he could step away from the console, his mind going back to their personal profiles. He really didn't have time to decide and change Grif's name, but with all the crap that Grif put him through, he deserved something done to him. He really did, that cockbite.

Smiling wickedly, yelling back a ' _yes sir'_ at his commanding officer, knowing that Sarge would likely approve, he let his finger hit the backspace button and with the utmost enthusiasm one could put into an index finger, he hit the F button under the sex category.

Thus, Private Dexter Grif became female … at least in Command's records. Was it for better or worse, at that moment the maroon solider would be unable to say, but fuck it, they were probably all going to die anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, for all the times I've been on this site I have never made a collection of one-shots. It never peaked my fancy and yet in the middle of the night when I should have been sleeping, I was hit with the idea: what if Simmons had messed with Grif's files while deleting the Blues? And though I have no real plans of their being any real pairings in this right now, it does promise to be hilarious. 
> 
> (Revisions August 2016)


	2. It’s Probably Just Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

“They are going to torture us in ways that you can’t possibly imagine. They will make you scream and cry for your mommy and make you wish that you were never born. They may even call you a Blue to mentally torment you, but don’t give in. Die with some pride!” said Sarge as he stood with his back to the prison bars to the cell they had been thrown into after shortly being caught by soldiers of the UNFC.

It turned out not having a functional jeep was a hindrance when escaping, as well as a slightly malfunctioning Simmons 2.0. Apparently, everyone kind of forgot he was part machine. He had been stumbling like a half drunk man as he struggled to reset his robot bits.

“Sir,” murmured Simmons, sitting in a corner because he didn't trust his legs. “I don't think they are actually going to torture us.”

“And what makes you say that soldier? We are in the enemy’s belly, slowly waiting to be digested! Of course they are getting ready to torture us! The only thing we can hope for is that Grif’s death may appease them when they discover we know absolutely nothing. If not, at least I will be comforted with the thought that Grif died before me!”

Grif, lying on a fold out cot, sighed at his superior’s speech, titled his head and was about to grumble something back when he suddenly sat up, staring at the white armored men behind them. One was obviously a commanding officer of some type and the rest were guards.

“Well, lucky you pretty little daisy on the beach,” said the commanding officer, his voice smooth and slightly Texan as he looked at some kind of digital folders. “You may call me Lieutenant Commander Badrock. And it looks like you guys and gals are just some Sim-Soldiers from your records, but you got yourselves in deep didn’t you? Likely the work of the Freelancers from what we have been able to gather so far, but we are going to ask you Nancy boys and pretty ladies some questions if you all don't mind. If you answer our questions, this will be as painless as possible.”

“Inconceivable!” interrupted Sarge as the command officer stalled at the door’s lock.

“Excuse me there sunshine? Do we have a problem?”

“The backside of a stuffed turkey do we have a problem,” barked Sarge. “We are your prisoners, worms in your great frog belly. Where is the screaming, the pleading, the promises that we will wish we were never born, that Grif was never born, with highly corrosives acids being dripped slowly down our flesh? You should be upon us with every torture imaginable, especially Grif.”

Grif merely sighed at this, but did not have time to interrupt as the white commanding officer cough, “Umm, I just said this would be _painless_ as possible there … Uh, Sarge. Is that really your name?”

“I used to be called S-Dog, but that’s not a title for you to use, dirt bag.”

Looking back at the small company around him, Badrock cleared his throat and stated in a confused tone, “Perhaps we should let medical have a look at these guys and gals before we ask any … un-stabling questions. In fact, we should really check the Staff Sergeant for a concussion. Really.”

“More like a psych ward,” grumbled one soldier before he was quickly elbowed by a smaller counterpart in the gut, the shorter man agreeing in a British accent, “I couldn’t agree more, sir. That sounds like a well-rounded theory.”

Badrock merely nodded in agreement, eying the other with a critical eye.

“Alright, gents and ladies, we’ll be right back. Now don’t you be going anywhere,” weakly chuckled the man in his Texan accent as he walked away, leaving the three Reds in mild confusion, but what else was new?

Grif was, surprisingly, the first to speak once the men were out of sight.

“Well, he was rude,” grumbled Grif as he hunkered back down on his prison cot. “At least when Sarge calls us powder puffs and ladies, there is a hint of sarcasm. This guy though, I might have actually been offended … if I wasn’t too lazy to care.”

Simmons, having thought the tilt of the commander’s head to Grif was a little weird as well, actually stalled, a tingle running up his spine.

Oh no. Oh, no.

“Oh no, I’m so dead,” squeaked Simmons as the realization hit him like a two ton brick. Maybe Badrock wasn't being sarcastic. Maybe he actually thought one of their members … was a chick. Fuckkkk! How had he forgotten?!

“Hmm, what’s that?” said Sarge as he turned around, done glaring at the two white guards they had left to watch them. “What? Did your electronic lungs finally give out? Or was it just your ovaries. Hehehe.”

“What, _no_? They're fine. No, mean, uhhhh. Everything’s fine. _Just fine_ ,” squeaked Simmons, gaining the attention of even the bored guards with his ever growing pitch.

Simmons, for his part was starting to panic, because he had forgotten in the excitement of running for their life and half of his body frizting out for a while because of that damn Emp. He had totally forgotten what he had done before leaving that computer console. He had completely forgotten that he had turned Grif into a girl! Not literally of course, but even that lazy bastard would punch him in the face for what he had thought was his last fulfilling act in this world. He deserved it after that lazy ass ran up all those credit cards under his name.

Sarge and Grif both looked at each other for a fraction of a second before their commander asked in all seriousness, “What’s wrong? Do you need to punch Grif? That always makes me feel better when _impending doom_ is hanging over my head.”

“It’s nothing sir. _Nothing_ , nothing at all,” said Simmons, his voice rising an octave with each word. “What could possibly be wrong, besides us being imprisoned and that we may possibly never go home, but I can assure you that nothing is wrong. Nothing at all.”

“I don't know about that Simmons. You seem kind of … stiff,” said Grif, paying a little more attention. Simmons only acted like that when he was lying, badly, or when he had to take a -

“Do you need to drop a brick?” said Sarge in all seriousness, as if reading Grif's train of thought.

Simmons, balking slightly, blushed under his armor and choked, 'W-what?”

“You know,” said Sarge, shifting his shoulders slightly, “feed the white monster, fire off a missile, back one out, pinching a loafer, giving birth to a brown baby marine.”

Simmons was still for a moment as he stood there, Grif snorting at his side.

“What?!”

“Taking a shit,” chuckled Grif, knowing far to well where this conversation was leading.

“What, _no_?” cried Simmons, his voice squeaking like a teenage boy.

“Now Simmons,” huffed Sarge, not even noticing that he had gather the complete attention of their two guards with his little collection of idioms. “I told you there is nothing wrong with relieving yourself in front of others. It’s all natural.”

“Like burping, but with more disgusting noises and smells,” offered Grif, mostly to taunt Simmons, because he knew the other man's hate of pooping in a public place, for that matter their own base. The guy probably held it in for two months, if not three years with the way he acted.

“Or wanting to shoot Grif in the face,” added Sarge. “Completely natural.”

Sighing, head wilting, “Sir, this really is not the time to talk about my … uh … insecurities.”

“Nonsense, all the more people watching. In fact, I think it’s best I hehe … pray to the porcelain god myself,” joked Sarge as he started towards the latches on the lower part of his armor. “Time to drop some bombs boys. Tazah!”

“Oh god, my eyes!”

“Ugh! What is wrong with you people!”

“Sarge, warn a man!”

Simmons merely sighed, unable to decide if he should be glad for the distraction or not. Because this … this was horrifying and yet he wasn't as surprised as he thought he should be. Maybe this was what madness felt like.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, not a lot happened in this … but that's Red Vs Blue for you. That's half of their charm. Anyway, I decided that most of this fic will occur between S6 and S7. It might drag into the other seasons, but for now we are dealing with the after-math of S6. I really have no idea what happened, but the Reds were rather vague about it so I can say whatever I wish to. XD


	3. There's a Phobia for That

“All righty,” said a bubbly yet masculine voice. “I hear we have some booboos and ouchies that need some patching up. Let’s come and get you guys and gals checked out, shall we?”

For a moment the three Reds all stared at their medics in white, red crosses on their uniforms' shoulders.

“Fuck … Doc is that you? We all knew it was a hope beyond hope, but we were hoping you were dead,” said Sarge with a slight growl in his voice.

For a moment the white healer stood still, looked at the other medic standing next to him and then murmured, “Doc? No, my name is McKay and her name is Sanders. Um, we are medics.”

“Then why were you talking like a retard?” asked Grif, watching the medics with a bored expression behind his helmet.

“Uh, well, I was trying to be … mentally comforting?” said the medic, his tone changing to one someone might use when trying to talk someone down off a building. “Are you not comfortable? Do you feel overwhelming feelings of anger or sadness?”

For a moment the three Reds stared at the medic before Simmons was the first to squeak, “ _We are not crazy_. Well, I’m not. We, uh, you just remind us of someone that we hate.”

“… Oh, well, that’s understandable. I guess. Soooo, moving on, we heard you needed some medical care. Are you the injured party? Are you the one in need for a medic?” asked the medic, noting Simmons struggle to stand up straight.

Sarge, in turn, chuckled, “More like a mechanic.”

“Mechanic. Why would you need a mechanic?” said the female medic as she answered for McKay. “What do you mean … _Oh fuck!_ He’s part cyborg isn’t he?! Why didn’t you idiots say anything! An E.M.P just went off. How is he even still functioning?”

For a moment the three Reds looked at each other and then Sarge answered in all seriousness, “You mean an Emp.”

“Emp? Emp … what are you?” the girl stalled for a moment, recalling Lieutenant Commander Badrock’s grumble. “Ooooh, you are the one with the concussion or possible brain damage. I see … McKay, I’ll take the half-robot, you take the … delusional one.”

“What? Why do I have to deal with the red one?” complained McKay. “I want the half robot one. I’ve always loved the smell of Freon and the mesh of metal and flesh intertwining together like two lovers in a hot mess, separate and yet one. God, I just love that. I want him.”

There was a moment of silence, even the guards staring at the male medic, the man just standing there as if in deep thought.

Simmons, having stood up and taken a few steps behind his commanding officer, murmured, “Uh, Sarge. Don’t let him take me … I think I need an adult.”

McKay, as if being pulled back down to earth, suddenly rubbed the back of his neck, “I … just realized how gay that sounded. Yeah, the stupidity must be contagious. You can have him.”

“Wait, what? She’s going to look at my robot parts? Like touch my robot nuts and rods,” said Simmons, his voice squeaking as everyone turned to look at him instead.

It really was like watching a train wreck. Someone really should have brought popcorn.

Simmons, sighing, realized what he had just said as well and grumbled, “… Uh, I knew those idiots would start rubbing off on me, but why did it have to be Donut?”

The male medic, the awkwardness contagious at this point, coughed in his hand as he asked, “Um, you sure you want him?”

Sanders looked at her counterpart, snorting, “What, I’m not afraid of some robot junk. I’ll just get under his armor and dig right in.”

“Wait? What?” said Simmons, his back now against the wall as the bars opened, the female medic stepping in with an air of confidence. “Sarge, I’m not ready for this. I get nervous in front of girls. Especially if I have to take my shirt off!”

Sarge, surprisingly, stepped out of the way, chuckling, “Hehe, be gentle with him little lady.”

“Sir?!”

“And you, dirt bag,” said Sarge as he allowed the female medic to walk forward and basically throw Simmons over her shoulder. “We have to talk … about robots! I can respect a man that knows his machines … and medicine, especially together!”

McKay merely sighed … it was going to be one of those days, wasn't it?

…

“Oh, no, please not there. Be gentle. Ugh, I don’t know if I’m ready for this. Oh, your hands are so cold,” whined Simmons.

Sanders sighed as her patient squirmed on the medical table. She had barely been able to get him out of his helmet, for that matter his chest plate. Now he was just sitting there clutching his undershirt, his metallic half turned away from her as his freckled flesh seemed to blush all over.

“Oh, come on,” grumbled the female medic. “You act like a girl’s never seen you with your shirt off. It's not like I asked for you to turn your head and cough.”

Simmons just blushed deeper and refused to look her in the eye.

Sanders sighed, wondering how this man was even a soldier for that matter half cyborg if he couldn’t stand someone looking over his robotic parts. Certainly from time to time he required assistance, especially with the parts he couldn’t reach on his back or high shoulder.

“Really, you have a female trooper in your group. Certainly, she has seen you in less than full body armor from time to time?” asked the medic as she reached for a screw driver. Maybe she should have let McKay have this one. This was taking forever.

“What? What girl? We don’t have a girl! And Donut doesn’t count,” said Simmons, his voice raising in pitch at the mere thought of having a girl on the team … and that one time with Grif's sister did not count! She was part Grif after all.

Sanders stalled, frowning under her helmet before she walked over to grab the files on the Red Team.

“What do you mean you don’t have a female in your group? I could have sworn that the … Fuck, don’t tell me that the Red Teams files were messed with as well. Whoever that _saboteur_ was, was a genius. He managed to destroy almost half of the personnel records. And let me just tell you, when the UNSC  gets their hands on whoever destroyed all those files, there is going to be hell to pay. We are still half blind in this mess. Regardless, are you saying that there isn’t a female in your ranks? If so, it’s the first inconsistency that we have noticed for the Red Teams. Perhaps it is a clue.”

Simmons squeaked, the word _saboteur_ bouncing around in his head. He wasn’t a saboteur! That would go against his permanent record. Plus, he didn’t know if he could take prison life!

He didn't want to be somebody's bitch!

Choking to find the right words, Simmons struggled for a lie … a terrible lie, but a lie none the less, “What, oh … no, there’s nothing inconsistent. Nope, nothing at all. I-I just … _forgot_?”

“Forgot? How could you forget one of your team members was a girl?” said Sanders as she finally took hold of the robotic arm, plugging it into a nearby computer console for a scan to see if anything was damaged.

“Oh well … I sometimes forget that … Grif is a girl,” said Simmons, struggling for thoughts. “Um, you see, he … I mean, she doesn’t like being referred to as a … girl. In fact, I think most of the team has kind of forgotten.”

Reading the screen for a moment, surprised Simmons was still alive with how many robotic parts he contained internally, Sanders asked, “And why would that be?”

“… Because.”

“Because?”

“Because, because.”

“... What?”

“Yes, because … you know, _h-she_ has yellow armor on so it makes sense.”

Frowning under her helmet, the medic murmured, “Well, it looked more orange to me and quite honestly that doesn’t even make sense. Perhaps I should ask her … or … uh, _him_ , personally.”

“What, _no_? You can’t do that,” squeaked Simmons.

“And why not?” said the woman as she walked around the table and started poking at the robotics she could see.

“Um … well, Grif has issues. Umm, personal issues. She … uh … has daddy issues and body figure issues. Plus, I think she might have a mild case of … uh … vestiphobia?”

“… A fear of clothing?”

“No … um … Xanthophobia. Yeah, that one,” said Simmons, partially glad he was cooled by Freon now or otherwise he would be sweating up a storm. He really was a terrible lair.

“But I thought you said he was wearing yellow? And xanthophobia is the fear of yellow,” said the medic, wondering if perhaps she would check this simulation soldier for a concussion as well.

Simmons sat there a moment, blushing even more because now not only was he sitting with a smart woman- _woman_ , but a smart one as well.

“Oh sorry, my mind went a little blank … I meant kolpophobia and perhaps some Heterophobia and Paraphobia. And… is there a phobia for the fear of work?”

“Uh … not that I’m aware of. I think that's just laziness,” said the woman, part of her wondering if the E.M.P had affected the other’s mind.

“Well, if there is, _she_ defiantly has that, the lard ass. Either way, Grif thought it would just be easier to act like a man, I suppose. Nobody, especially not a Red, messed with his-er-her files. I’d say, just let her be. Old Command never seemed to care,” said Simmons, twitching slightly as the woman tugged at something in his shoulder, his whole arm going offline … well, at least it wasn’t shaking anymore.

Playing with some wires that seemed to have been causing a misfire with a pointer finger (she would honestly be surprised if the man hadn’t shot himself in the foot already), the medic spoke, “Well, your … _bases_ … are now in UNFCs care. I doubt that they will ignore her needs like _old command_ did.”

Simmons, jerking as his limb came back online, frowned. He couldn’t help but feel he had dug himself an even deeper grave and now he was just putting the nails in his coffin.

Fuck, Sarge was going to kill him. Uh, was there a phobia for that?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this chapter is kind of a set up chapter, a little real plot if you will, but I personally love all the Simmons torture going on here. 
> 
> Vestiphobia: fear of clothing.   
> Xanthophobia: fear of the color yellow.   
> Kolpophobia- Fear of genitals, particularly female.   
> Heterophobia- Fear of the opposite sex. (Sexophobia)   
> Paraphobia- Fear of sexual perversion.


	4. Well, that was Mostly Painless

“But, don't you want to hear how those dirty Blues managed to create gravity as a way to destroy the Red's way of life?” echoed Sarge's voice as McKay stumbled out of the room.

“No, nope. I'm good. Dirty Blues, yep, shutting the door now. _Shutting the door_ ,” said McKay as he shut the door in Sarge's face, collapsing against the closed door like a man had just ran through a battlefield.

For a moment the man just sat there, mentally exhausted. That guy was crazy, bat shit crazy with a slice of lime. How was he even able to lead a team, for that matter keep them alive for as long as he had?

“What happened to you?” came a well know female voice, white boots appearing to the side of his range of vision.

Titling his head up, a pathetic expression hidden under his helmet, he answered Sumner, “I think I’ve just been Sarged as the red maniac would word it … or mentally tortured, but I kind of put those in the same box now. I couldn’t even get him to take his helmet off. He kept stating _real soldiers never take their armor off, son_ or some nonsense.”

The female soldier stood over him for about a minute before she placed a tool box next to her compatriot, chuckling, “Well, I’ll spare you and deal with the yellow or orange maybe-a-boy chick. You can finish up the cyborg. I think he has some piping that needs to be unclogged or they forgot to give a colon or maybe he just needs a laxative or something. Plus, I think he might have had ovaries. Either way, that kind of machinery is a little over my head. So I will let you deal with it… And I couldn’t get him to take his pants off.”

McKay actually chuckled at that, moaning a moment later from where she had kicked him in a shin.

“What? I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to, jerk. I know where your thoughts went.”

Rubbing his shin for a moment, though it was kind of a useless endeavor given he was wearing armor, the man stood up and a grumbled, “Bitch, when are they going to stop allowing half shark, half women into the military already.”

…

“Alright Private _Dexter_ Grif …” said Sumner as she read his file in front of the fully armored solider, Grif swinging his legs lazily off the medical table. “Um … that's a very masculine name. So, Grif. Just a few questions in case I need to check anything over … if you don’t mind?”

“Uh … yeah, whatever,” said Grif, clearly not paying attention, his mind was entirely engrossed with the idea of getting back to the Red's cell before Sarge and Simmons did. There were only two cots in there and he was going to get one for his next nap … Even though he had been napping since the other two were taken. Grif considered himself a simple man when it came to naps. When he saw an opportunity, he took it; a flat cot was better than no cot at all.

“Okay, just a few painless questions. First and foremost, just checking your records to make sure they are correct, are you a woman?” said Sumner, getting straight to the point.

Grif, his mind now asking itself if the medical berth was a better napping place then the cot in their cell, automatically answered, “Uh, yeah, sure.”

“… Oh, I … uh, well, just with your deep voice and name I kind of figured … Oh, ah, I see. It says you smoke right here, in your file. Well, that explains one thing at least, but it doesn't …”

The woman stalled and read over the record again. It seemed pretty average for a medical report except for … the donated body parts? _What_? Also, this medical was missing normal exams like pap smears and breast exams. Personally, part of her was still hesitant to believe Grif's record was accurate. In fact, what if she or _he_ was the saboteur?

Making himself into a female seemed pretty odd, but maybe she could make him flounder with her next question.

“Looking at your record. I don't see any recent pelvic exams or breast exams. It’s been a while, yes.”

Grif, meanwhile, was staring at the medical bed he was on wondering if the crinkly paper on top of it would make a good blanket. He automatically agreed, “Huh, yeah, I suppose.”

“Any particular reason as to why not? It says here a medic did visit you while in Blood Gulch.”

Grif did not answer her this time though, his hand petting the crinkly paper. His mind hadn't even processed her question. Sumner, thinking that perhaps there was some truth in Simmons words about some of Grif's phobias and that Grif was actual quite uncomfortable with her sex, took the idle movement as a sign of being embarrassed. She hadn't sounded shy, then again Sumner hadn't thought Simmons would be too afraid of girls to take off his shirt.

Allowing the nervous petting of the medical bed to continue for a minute, becoming uncomfortable herself, the medic cleared her throat, “I see … you don't seem very comfortable with me, and it’s not really my specialty honestly. Is this something that perhaps you would like your regular medic or doctor to deal with?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” answered Grif in a distracted tone, a yawn coming on.

“Alright, I'll set that up for you when we send you back to you base … if you want to go back to base?” asked the woman carefully, wondering if there was a reason for Grif's phobias.

“Sure, whatever you say Simmons,” answered Grif on autopilot.

Sumner, adding notes to the file, stalled in realization at the other woman's odd and distracted words. Oh, oh, so it was like _that_. Well, they had been alone for a long time.

“Simmons, huh?” said the other woman in a knowing tone, “He doesn't seem your type … or anyone's type really, but then again given the options … Yeah, there weren't a lot of options were there?”

“Mmm-hmm,” answer Grif, yawning slightly.

“Well, since you are obviously a woman of few words, I'll send you back to your … Simmons,” said the other women with a cough. “Here, let me just walk you back to your cell.”

It felt like a few seconds later, Grif being escorted to the Red's cell mumbling back to whatever the woman said as he mourned the loss of a good napping spot. A hall later the other woman was patting Grif on the shoulder as she looked at a constipated looking Simmons.

“Well, it sounds like … a wonderful relationship. I wish you two the best.”

Then, giving Simmons an approving nod, she left Grif and Simmons standing there in questionable confusion in their cell, Sarge snoring in a corner.

“Soooo … what where you two talking about?” squeaked Simmons after standing there a moment, wondering when he was going to be taken away for being the saboteur, his stomach was going crazy. Yes, it was true that he had been the one that fucked with the Blues records, but for entirely all the wrong reasons. Personally, he blamed lard ass for his situation.

Grif, a sick feeling settling over his stomach, looked over the other man and admitted, “I don't know, but for some reason I feel … violated. Like I just agreed to something _horrible_ without knowing it.”

“Well, how do you think you should feel? Like sunshine and daisies?” said Sarge as he sat up from the bunk that Grif had mentally claimed. “That’s what interrogation is supposed to feel like numb nuts. It’s supposed to grab you in your lower squish gut region and shake you around like a raccoon caught by a hound dog, both figuratively and mentally. It seems that they haven’t gotten to the figurative part yet though. My only hope is that they take Grif first. So that I know that he has died before me!”

Grif merely sighed at this, mourning the bunk that Sarge had stolen from him while Simmons choked, “Wait, what? That was interrogation? B-but they said they were medics.”

A growl came from Sarge, the man grumbling, “And when was the last time you actually spoke to a medic that knew how to do their job?”

Simmons and Grif looked at each other and were quiet before Simmons dropped his head a little in defeat, admitting, “... Excellent point, sir.”

“Now Grif, I know Simmons didn't say anything, but I know you too well dirt bag. What Red secrets did you reveal?! I'll shiv you for it! Rat!”

“Bu-but I didn't tell her anything!” defended the orange soldier. “I just agreed with everything she said like I always do when Simmons talks. I just _pretended_ to pay attention.”

“Oh that's go-wait? What! What do you mean you just pretend to listen and agree with everything I say?” yelled Simmons, truly insulted, his stomach giving a mighty flip. Oh, this isn't good. He knew there was something shifty about that pill the male medic gave him.

It was a fucking laxative … wasn't it. Fucker. If he didn't want to poop, he didn't damn well have to!

“Hmmm, what? Yeah, whatever you say Simmons,” agreed Grif, immediately bee-lining for the maroon soldier's bed, leaving the other man there, fuming as he bent over in pain.

“... I … fucking … hate … all of you …”

Grif actually turned his head at this, Simmons tone actually bitter. Sarge apparently noticed this as well, asking in a far more serious tone, “What, did they mess with your robot bits? Bend some rubber? Work on some rods?”

Moaning, Simmons grumbling, “You could say that … the cockbite.”

Sarge, sitting there a moment, suddenly chuckled, “Time to bow to the ceramic throne, is it? Simmons, I'm so proud of you. Hey guards, grab a camera, this is a once in a lifetime opportunity!”

Simmons merely groaned, glaring at his commanding officer. This was punishment, wasn't it? He was being punished for changing one stupid little letter, wasn't he?

“I hate you, Grif,” groaned Simmons as he tripped over to the metallic toilet in their cell.

The sounds that followed after would haunt Grif's naps for weeks to come … or maybe it was just Sarge's laughter and woots of encouragement to birth those chocolate marines.

God, he hated this army.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Grif, what deep holes you dig for yourself and yes Simmons, karma is totally half shark.


	5. Yarr, there be Plot-line Afoot

“Sir … they are all crazy. I can see why they left them in Blood Gulch. They were probably hoping they would die of dehydration,” said McKay, his armor now missing its earlier red cross.

Badrock, standing before a black conference screen, turned his attention to the two white soldiers, “Well, even I could have told you that and the interaction was … limited ..., but tell me, do you think they were involved with the recent events? I hoped that your _medical examination_ would yield us information easier than a debriefing.”

“Well, you were right that they would be more comfortable thinking we were medics. The team lead, Sarge-”

“Is that really his name?” interrupted Badrock.

“Well ... it was all he would answer to. So, yes, I would presume it is,” said McKay, in a slightly irritated tone. “But, as I was saying, it seems that he received a communication from Command, telling him that Agent Washington was a quote un-quote… _damn dirty Blue_ … and that they needed to stop him. So he collected his two subordinates that were nearby, Private Grif and Private Simmons. The rest of it is a little unclear, because he kept referring to Grif as a Mongoose that wouldn’t stay dead and Private Simmons as a transforming … bike.”

Sumner actually snorted at this, shaking her head, “Oh boy, and I thought I received the dysfunctional ones.”

Badrock, still looking at McKay as if waiting for the punchline to that joke, turned his attention to the other intelligence officer, “And what information did you collect?”

“Well, besides the fact that Simmons has some serious daddy issues and that Private Grif apparently refers to herself as a guy when she is female, and that those two have some kind of … something … going on, I didn’t have much luck either. Though, from some of Simmons nervous ramblings, I was able to gather that this was not the first time they have had interactions with the AIs, which might have been what attracted the attention of Agent Washington and Agent Maine, aka the Meta. He said that he was just glad that he wasn’t possessed again like when they dealt with O’Malley. O'Malley was apparently another name for one of the AI fragments.”

Badrock stared at the files they had on the Red Team for a moment, especially interested in Simmons files. His Cyborg surgery was extensive, and it had apparently been done in a box canyon with little to no medical equipment. Sarge, what a ridiculous name, was apparently the team’s surgeon, leader, and mechanic. Something was just not right here, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. There was no way a mere simulation soldiers had been able to do such an extensive surgery for that matter track down Agent Washington while surviving the Meta.

Sighing, feeling something was missing, he turned to his two soldiers, “These men, though they may not be entirely aware of it themselves, are knowledgeable.”

McKay actually snorted at this and Sumner tried not to laugh.

“… And I just realized how stupid that sounded,” said the Lieutenant Commander. “Regardless, just a brief interaction has informed us what is missing from the files … the Blues.”

The very word seemed to echo over the room, the three figures just standing there a moment before McKay stated, “Well, that wasn’t foreboding at all.”

“Not even with the whole echoing thing?”

“I was being sarcastic,” he bit back, looking back at his commander. “So, what do you want us to do with the Reds, sir? Do you want them aboard the ship with the rest of the evidence?”

At this Badrock actually laughed, “Heavens, no. The red one would probably have tried to convert the engine into a diesel engine, the female would probably spill something all over one of the control panels, and the pink one will try to download a picture, taking all of our reserve energy. Thus, forcing us to into a war that isn’t our own.”

McKay and Sumner both stared at their commanding officer for a moment before the female soldier murmured, “That was oddly specific sir... And what pink one? You mean the maroon one?”

“Yes, yes it was oddly specific,” said the man, his Texan accent seemly forcibly chipper.

Another moment of awkward since followed after before McKay asked, “Do you … do you want to talk about it, sir?”

“No, no I do not. Instead, we need to figure out what to do with these simulation soldiers until the time we need them. They obviously aren’t stable enough to introduce to the _real_ military. In fact, I wonder how they were even able to get a hold of them. They should have been sent back home. Any idea?”

“Well … we could … send them back to … Blood Gulch?” said McKay slowly as if he had just developed the idea on the fly.

Sumner immediately slapped her counterpart in the back of the head, nearly sending him into their commander.

“Are you dense? You want to send them to a place where they have been guinea-pigs for the last few years? They can’t even get access to fresh water and of the three members that we have met, they all have developed different types of psychosis or delusions due to the seclusion.”

McKay actually looked impressed, chuckling, “Well, I know who’s going to play the sexy psychiatrist next time during interrogation. Me … I get to play the crazy guy who’s afraid of his own pants.”

Sumner groaned and smacked her counterpart in the shoulder, the two now bickering in their own way. Sometimes Badrock wondered how these two were his best intelligence agents, the medical and mechanical expertise were just a perk. They got the job done though, so he would let the idiosyncrasies be.

“Enough you two,” finally interrupted Badrock now that Sumner had McKay in a headlock and was likely trying to cut off the oxygen supply to his brain. “She is right. We can’t send them back there. We still don’t completely know the full purpose of the simulation soldiers in this plot either. They were apparently supposed to be practice for the freelances, but at the same time I feel that the Director is hiding even more secrets than we realize. Regardless, we need them somewhere accessible.”

There was a moment of silence before McKay shrugged. “Hey, what about that Valhalla place? We could just say they can have the place until we find a better use for it and to hand over any information they might have on the AIs. It would keep them out of the way and yet easily accessible,”

“… Works for me. I have bigger fish to fry.”

“Yep, I thought so, sir.”

“... This so feels like a breach in ethics, just so you two know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooh, I somehow managed to explain how the Reds (at least) got their new base and how they are now waiting pawns … wait, did I say that out loud? Meh. Not much humor in this one, but I'm lean towards a real plot line in this so I couldn't help myself.


	6. Upgrades are for Suckers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

The UNFC ship landed with a heavy thud, the Reds' shoulders bumping against each other from the impact, the metallic echoing noise barely audible over the roar of the Pelican’s engine. Grif, with a sleepy yawn, was roused from his slumber, rolling his shoulders as he looked around for a moment in confusion. Ah yes, how he could forget? Sarge was so disappointed that no one was properly tortured … Well, except probably Simmons. The kiss ass. He actually, kind of, felt bad for him. It had been funny for the first day, but after that … Courtesy flush now had a whole new meaning and Simmons was probably going down in history as the longest poop ever.

Despite himself, Grif did kind of chuckle at that.

Simmons quickly threw a glare at the other, no words needed to express his hate over the situation. For some reason Simmons had blamed him for the incident … and karma. Whatever that meant.

The back hatch of the Pelican fell open, raining light down on them. Grif couldn’t help but sigh. He really wished that they would just send them, or specifically him, home already. It didn’t matter where this place was, but it promised to be the hell hole. It didn’t matter that Command was technically under new management. Command was still command and if there was one thing Grif had learned during his time in the army was that they were always idiots.

“Alright, ladies,” said the pilot as he stepped back into the ship, “Unload your cargo and welcome to your new corner of hell … Unless, you want to stay with me.” The male pilot chuckled as he leaned on the bulkhead of the ship and over Grif slightly, the other's cod piece a little too close to the orange soldier’s face. Grif, awkwardly leaning back, looked to his side for help, but Sarge and Simmons were both already on their feet, grabbing supplies.

Grif, sighing, not even wanting to answer the creepy pilot, grumbled to himself, “I can’t believe I’m actually going to say this …”

“Hey, guys,” Grif’s voice squeaking as he awkwardly dodged the white armored man standing over him. “Let me help you with that.”

Simmons, who had been trying to lift something by himself, was surprised that not only did Grif suddenly help lift the large box, but that he was _actually_ lifting it and not just pretending to. Walking backwards out of the ship, noting the orange soldier's nervous glances behind himself, Simmons asked, “Okay, what do you want lard ass?”

Grif, turning his attention to the other, said, “Huh? What was that Simmons?”

Growling in his helmet, still upset that Grif apparently ignored almost everything he had ever said to the other man, the cyborg grumbled, “What do you want? We both know you would not do work willingly. If I was Sarge, I would be crying the end is neigh and to repent.”

Grif, unsurprisingly, dropped the large crate when they got outside, Simmons barely getting his feet out of the way in time.

Grif merely looked over his shoulder and admitted, “I just … I don’t … Ugh, everyone’s been _fucking creepy, okay._ And generally I wouldn't fucking care, but all of the soldiers keep looking at me funny and invading my personal space and I can’t get a _fucking nap_ Simmons because they keep _finding me and saying weird shit!_ Do you know what it’s like to have your naps interrupted _constantly_ especially when weird men keep calling you things like _little lady_ and _sunshine_ and _good looking_. It’s fucking creepy. Just right now, I think the pilot was hitting on me.”

Simmons almost tripped and fell on his face, finally understanding all the strange attention Grif had been getting recently. Apparently, it had gotten around that the _yellow_ one was a chick. And, it wasn’t that females were _completely uncommon_ , it was just that Grif wasn’t giving off the half-chick half-shark vibe like most women apparently did in the military. If this wasn’t going to get pinned on him, he might have thought that that was extremely funny.

“… You don’t think he was hitting on me, do you? I don’t give off that _kind_ of vibe, do I?” squawked Grif, horrified at the prospect of becoming obsessed with hand creams like Donut.

“You mean the girl vibe,” said Simmons, speaking his own thoughts aloud only to stall when he realized what he had just said, not catching onto Grif’s train of thought at first; his voice squeaked like a drowning rat as he tried to cover his trail. “I mean gay vibe. No, no. I think it’s just you. Yep, totally just in your head. I mean … why would anyone think you are a girl, I mean gay?”

“Yeah, why would anyone … _wait_?” Grif stalled, horror washing over him. Generally, Grif cared very little about much of anything, but there were something things he just couldn't let stand. Bats were up there but this was taking second place at the moment. “ … Do you think they think I’m a _chick_? My armor is orange, dude, _orange_! Not _yellow_. It is not yellow! I even sound like a guy. This doesn’t … I just can’t …”

“Hey, powder puffs,” Sarge suddenly interrupted Grif’s emotional breakdown.

“ _I’m not a girl!”_

“They got us some new armor,” finished the team lead, not the least bit distracted by the outburst as he stood between his two subordinates, his new armor looking extra spiffy and murder-ready in the sunlight.

“What, really? That sounds great,” said Simmons, glad for the distraction, ignoring Grif as much as he could whilst standing next to him. “This is like a whole new world for us. New bases, new armor; it's a fresh start … where mistakes that we made won’t come back to haunt us in horrible emotional explosions.”

Sarge, standing there a moment as if dwelling on the other man’s strangely specific words, seemed to forget it a second later as he tilted his head and basically threw a crate at Simmons and then Grif, stating, “The fly-boys want our old armor, ladies-“

“ _Not a girl!”_

“-something about looking for AI remnants or something. Now stop standing there like a bunch of girl scouts-“

“ _Stop calling me a girl!”_

“-and put these on. Pronto.”

Grif barely had time to look over his crate before a newly-armored Simmons replied, “ _Done,_ and might I say I love that new armor smell. Mmm, lingering traces of uranium.”

Grif and Sarge just stared at him in a questioning manner.

“What? You know I’m a fast changer. I’m not comfortable with people looking at me without a shirt on,” stated the maroon man, Grif finally turning his attention to his own small crate.

Prying it open, eying the contents critically as if trying to decide if it was more yellow or orange, he lifted up the chest piece first, hating the chore that was about to occur, only to stall, eyes going wide. This had to be a joke. A sick, sick joke. Flipping it around, making sure the two mounds matched the other side, he confirmed his suspicions.

“What, the fuck are these?” he said flipping the armor around so the other two men could see the roomy indents in the chest area.

Sarge actually chuckled at this, “Well, I know that they said they were adding some girth to your armor, but this gives breast plate a new meaning. Heh, heh. It seems even new command knows you are weak like a girl Grif.”

Somewhere, in a desert, a soldier in green-ish blue, maybe teal, armor twitched. The need to say his coin phrase left unheard where he was needed.

“In fact, that would explain all the feminine hygiene products we received, to add insult to insult. I thought they were for Donut, where ever he may be, but it seems that the universe has decided to degrade you further, Grif. It’s almost enough to make a grown man cry,” said Sarge, making a sniffing noise beneath his new helmet. “Though, luckily you aren’t really a girl, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to hit you, like this. Eat that, dirt bag!”

“Youch, what was that for!” cried Grif as he grabbed for his helmet, where Sarge had just hit him with the butt of his gun.

“For trying to take the easy girly way out again!”

Holding his helmet, trying to stand up straight, the orange soldier whined, “I didn't ask for this? Why would they even give me a woman's armor? Unless … what if they really think I’m a _girl_? How could they even get that mixed up in my files?!”

Simmons had already taken a good several healthy steps backwards (more like a few yards) at this point when both Sarge and Grif turned their heads to stare at the maroon soldier in an accusing manner. Standing there a moment, the breast plate falling back into the crate as Grif’s hands slowly started to become fists at his side, Sarge raising his shot gun as well.

Simmons found himself stuttering. “W-well, it-it sounds like a technical error to me. Not anything I did thinking it was one of the last things I would ever do in this world.”

Sarge cocked his shotgun, a deep part of him saddened that he couldn't point it at Grif, because Command was never wrong. Even when they made them wrong. And he would never hit a girl, even a fake one, like Grif... And Tex, but they were not going to get into that technicality … or that he hit Grif three seconds ago.

“I'll … just be leaving now.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems Simmons has finally been outed. As for if women have different types of armor, I can't say. Sister doesn't exactly mention if hers was different internally. She merely mentioned not having enough room, so if I feel there should be some space for the ladies, bam, there is. Fanfiction baby! To the next chapter!


	7. Why so Blue?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

In the distance, above the roar of the waterfall and the lapping of the creek, there was chanting in the distance. No, perhaps it was more a whining keen. Yes, yes, definitely a whining keen, high pitch and kind of squeally like a drowning rat. A know-it-all drowning rat to be more specific.

Suddenly, a maroon soldier ran across the valley in the distance, the origin of the noise now obvious as a mantra escaped the figure.

“I’m so dead. I’m so dead. I’m so dead. _I’m so dead_ ,” cried Simmons mostly to himself. Only when he was a fair distance from Red Base and was certain he couldn't hear the roar of a Warthog chasing him down like the dog he was, did he stall. Taking a breath, he allowed his head to slump forward.

“Sarge is going to kill me,” whined the soldier to aloud himself. “I am so dead. I can’t ... I don’t even … What did I do to deserve this?”

“Yee-haw!” suddenly came a jubilant cry, along with the roar of a Warthog. From his hidden basin in the creek bed Simmons watched as the vehicle jumped about ten feet into the air, coming down with a harsh crunch that nearly sent Sarge out of his seat. Even from here, in the distance, he could see that Grif was pissed. He was driving like, well, not to sound ironic, but _a mad woman_! If Grif saw him now, he’d probably run him down like a stuffed turkey on Thanksgiving.

Swallowing and whining in his helmet when he heard an echoing scream of, _“I will find you Simmons!”_ , the maroon soldier took a step back in the waterfall’s direction. He needed a place to hide as this blew over. Unfortunately, this place was as much of a box canyon as Blood Gulch. There was no true escape so he just needed to lay low.

Despite himself, despite his inner Red telling him to not even _dare_ look in that direction, he found his head titling in the direction of Blue Base.

So, despite knowing what a terrible idea it was to turn to the _Blue side_ , the man found himself crouching low with a new destination in mind. There were no Blues here yet, so no one need know. No one had to know that he had sunk down to that level _again_. He’d just hide out for a few days and everything would blow over.

Probably.

Oh, fuck it. He was probably going to die anyway.

Jumping and diving at any sound that even distinctively resembled that of a Warthog, Simmons soon found himself before Blue Base.

Standing there a moment, he wondered if he could just loiter there and _say_ he went inside, but never actually go inside. Instead, the roar of an engine nearby sent the soldier inside with a yip as if he had just been shot in the rear.

He wasn’t even completely around the corner when he slammed into the equivalent of a brick wall. Falling flat on his back, the air was knocked out of him. Slightly dazed, he sat up with a groan as he patted around for a weapon.

“What was that?” the soldier found himself grumbling as he grabbed at his head.

“It was me! _I think_ … … Oh, it’s you Simmons! How are you doing? You are very hard to run into.”

Sitting there a moment, hating himself beyond hate, he looked up and was met with a most unwanted sight.

“ _Caboose!_ How? What? When did you even get here?” squeaked Simmons, now fumbling around to find the gun that he had dropped.

Caboose, titling his head back as if in thought, sat there a moment and then stated, “You ask too many questions, but I live here now! Its blue, I’m blue and it has a pool out back. It is very cold and very wet and very drowny.”

Simmons just looked at the other soldier, no longer fumbling for his gun. Really, what was the point? This was Caboose he was talking to. He was far more likely to accidentally get murdered by this idiot then the Blue purposely doing such.

Caboose probably didn't even know how to actually use a gun given his team kill count.

Standing up, looking down at the blue soldier whose head was tilted skyward like a lost puppy, Simmons reluctantly offered a hand-up while he murmured, “That still didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, it did not,” answered Caboose, so sure of himself even though he probably had no idea what he was talking about.

Standing there for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, Simmons struggled to swallow his pride. Then, with a heavy tongue, he asked, “Well, anyway … you don’t mind if I … _stayhereforawhile_ , would you?”

Caboose, not even missing a beat, replied, “Sure, _just don’t touch my secret friend_ … or my kitten calendars. WAIT! Why do you want to stay here Simmons? Do you not like being red anymore?”

“What? No!” cried Simmons as he became defensive. “I love Blues, I mean _Reds_! Why would I want to be anything other then Red?”

“Oooh, so you are running away. I did that once, but I wasn’t allowed to cross the street on my own. My mom forgot my birthday … or maybe I forgot my birthday,” finished Caboose in a drawn out way, before he sudden gasped, “ _Simmons?!_ Did they forget your birthday?! Did they not let you have cake?! Is Sarge forcing you to bury his booty instead?”

“What? I don’t even know what you mean by _booty_ , but I … uh,” Simmons sighed, shoulders falling slightly. Caboose wasn't going to understand anything he said, was he? He'd just get confused and then it would spiral off into stupidity. Well, whatever, he gave up. It wasn't like anyone on his team was going to listen to him anyway.

“No … I made Grif a girl in command's records, _okay_. And now he’s mad and Sarge’s mad and I thought we were going to die, and it was really mean of me, but I changed Grif’s records regardless. And now karma’s out to get me, and it would hurt to get ran over, and I don’t want to _die_ for such a stupid reason! Even though I’m sure I’m going to die in this insignificant place and no one will fucking care anyway, and _I’m not going to cry_ … it's just … maybe, I should just dig myself a grave and be done with it.”

Caboose stood there a moment, his brain struggling to even dissect a section that, his brain gripping what straws of information it could. “I didn’t understand a lot of what you said, but I’m pretty sure we don’t have any shovels. I haven’t accidentally killed anyone yet so I don’t think we have any, but now … you can’t stay here.”

“What? Why not?” bleated Simmons, panic mode on its highest level. “I just told you _everything_ and you are just going to leave me out here for the buzzards?!”

“This is not a buzzing game, Simmons,” said Caboose in the most serious tone he could muster, which wasn’t much. “This is serious. I do not want to catch pregnancy, and girls can catch pregnancy, and Grif is now a girl. I do not want it. You have to go.”

Simmons stood there a moment, completely dumbfounded. Caboose really wasn’t that stupid, was he?

He almost chided himself for even thinking such a dumb question. Caboose-stupid must be contagious.

“Caboose … I don’t even know how you function. Look, pregnancy is _not_ contagious, okay. And also, we are men. Men don't get pregnant,” said Simmons in an I-know-everything-tone.

“Tucker caught pregnancy and he was a man. It did not look fun. I do not want pregnancy,” said the Blue soldier stubbornly.

Oooh yeah, he vaguely remembered something about 'a pregnant guy' in all the chaos of Blood Gulch. Fuck, this place was turning into another Blood Gulch, wasn’t it? All they needed now was a Freelancer trying to kill everyone.

Despite himself, despite how awkward it was, he said it regardless, “You do know where babies come from, don't you Caboose?”

Caboose was silent for a minute, just staring at the maroon soldier as he drew out a very unconvincing, “Yes... I know where baby vampire linebackers come from.”

Simmons sighed and then looked back in the direction of the exit. Ugh, he did not have time to deal with this. Talks like this led to talks about girls and talks about _things_ girls had _under their clothing,_ and he was already blushing thinking about it. He could not deal with this!

Beside himself, despite knowing that he should just walk away, the know-it-all in him had to ask, “You don't know where babies _normally_ come from, do you?”

“No, I do not,” finally admitted Caboose as he hung his head, before perking up. “But Church had a book back at base that he said he would read to me and I found it. I will let you stay if you read it to me and tell me how not to catch pregnancy.”

Simmons, having picked up his gun at this point, was backing up to the entrance slowly but surely. No, no, no! He wasn't getting stuck giving Caboose _The Talk_! No, he'd rather face Sarge and the equivalent of a PSMing Grif then deal with _whatever the fuck this was_. Yep, would totally rather die. He couldn't even think about girly parts without clamming up. How was he supposed to tell someone else about it?!

“Um, no, I'd rather not. I don't … I don't deal well with girls or talks about girls or the parts girls have. I'll just … just be going now,” squeaked Simmons as he walked backwards away from Caboose ready to leave … only to stall three feet from the door when a loud _rrrrvvvoooom_ echoed outside.

It was the Warthog. The _fucking_ Warthog. He'd know that engine anywhere.

“Simmons! Are you in there! I'll _fucking_ kill you, you kiss ass!” came a scream from outside.

Simmons stalled and whined in his helmet like a dog that had just been disciplined.

Caboose, coming up next to the red soldier, as if knowing he had a hand-up on the situation, tilted his head in a happy way. Then, like an excited puppy, Caboose replied back, “Do not worry Simmons. It will be like a sleep over! I will grab some extra blankies and the book and you will read it to me. We can have cupcakes and it will be fun and very informative. Just let me tell the pirate that no one is home.”

Simmons, resigning himself to this fate, slowly nodded as the Blue soldier walked passed him and to the door. This was going to suck. It was going to suck hard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paw07: Yep, yep, yep. Next chapter is going to be nothing but awkward torment for Simmons. You know, so far, it seems that the only one really suffering from this is Simmons. Poor guy.
> 
> (Revisions August 2016)


	8. Purple is Not a Color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

“Simmons! Come out here so I can gut you like a fish!” screamed Grif, his new armor glinting in the sunlight. He hadn't wanted to put it on, but the ship was leaving and they needed his old armor. Grif did not miss the glances he got from the pilots before they had left. It only furthered to enrage him.

The figure to exit the Blue base was not quite who the two Red's expected.

“Hello, no bodies home. You should leave now,” said Caboose as he stood before the entrance of the base, a few yards from the warthog, a distance between the two parties which made them have to slightly shout.

“Dang dirty Blue! How did you get here?!” barked Sarge as he pointed his shotgun at the Blue.

“I followed you. It was a very long trip,” said Caboose in a matter-o-factly tone.

“But we flew here,” added Grif, his tone perplexed by the thing that was Caboose. In all honesty, he knew he shouldn't have been surprised, but sometimes some bouts of stupidity threw him off guard. Not that he cared most of time, but having to adapt to two new _heavy_ bumps on his chest piece was irritating and was making him rather moody. Really, how did chicks deal with this? He already had to change the way he held his gun to accommodate for the extra upper girth.

The cod piece was roomier at least, but he wasn't going to admit that aloud.

“Yes, yes you did.”

For a moment the three men just stared at each other. When no explanation was obviously going to be given, Sarge finally spoke, “So, dirty Blue, not that I think your intel is very reliable without a little torture in the mix, we are kind of in a hurry. Have you seen a red guy … that isn’t us?”

Caboose titled his head as if thinking and then asked in an innocent tone, “You mean Captain Cookie Pants. No, I haven’t seen him anywhere. Which is too bad, he makes good cookies.”

The two reds looked at each other for a moment, as if questioning if they were both dreaming this or not. Then Grif, shrugging his shoulders, grumbled, “I think he means Donut.”

“Yes, him. He is very nice, and no, I have not seen him,” said the blue soldier simply.

Sighing, knowing that this was going to completely ruin his blood-lust mood, Sarge yelled back, “No, the other red one!”

“You mean the mean Mexican? He says mean things … and I don’t understand him.”

“No,” answered the two reds, Grif’s tone almost bored.

“You mean the orange one?” asked Caboose innocently.

“No … wait, what orange-” stalled the Hawaiian, his next words a screech, “I’m not yellow, dick-wad! I’m orange! And I’m right in front of you!”

Caboose, titling his head up and down as if in in thought, finally mumbled, “Ooooh, I didn’t see you there, Grif. Hi! My feet smell like fish.

Grif, collapsing back into the driver's seat to pout, glared at the blue man before Caboose finally asked, “Sooo ... Did you mean the purple one?”

“Wait? Do you mean Doc?” cried Grif, his patience all but destroyed. “ _He’s not Red_! He’s … a more of a in the middle color. Like half red, half blue.”

“Which is why I never really trusted him. He was half Blue,” grumbled Sarge as he gripped his shotgun tighter.

“Oooh, so he’s not a color. Okay, glad we cleared that up,” said Caboose, chipper. “So, yes, I think that’s all the Reds. Did I win the guessing game? Do I get a prize?”

Sarge actually growled, quickly becoming irritated, “Only If I can put a bullet in your skull.”

One could almost heard Caboose frown behind his helmet as he thought it over.

“… That doesn’t sound like a very good prize. In fact, I’m sure that would hurt. A lot. And I don’t like hurting,” said Caboose as he took a step away from the two Reds, pulling his gun closer.

Grif groaned, wondering how the Blues dealt with this idiot before he grumbled, “Just … tell us where Simmons is. I need to gut him and take his armor. I’m not wearing this a moment longer.”

“Simmons?” questioned the Blue soldier as if he had just had a realization.

Simmons, hiding just inside the base’s door, held his breath thinking there was no way the idiot was smart enough to not blab his location. Beside himself, he tightened his shoulders as if readying himself to run like a blue blooded (he meant _red_ blooded) coward.

“Haven’t seen him. Why? Do you need help finding him? Is he playing hide and seek? Can I play?” said Caboose in a sincere tone.

“No, dirty Blue! We wouldn’t accept your help even if Grif was …” Sarge suddenly stalled in his insult as if thinking it over before he sighed. “It’s just not the same when you’re insulting a woman, even if that woman is Grif.”

“I’m not a girl!” screeched the orange soldier as he turned on the engine, barking at the older Red, “Now get into the car!”

“But women can’t dri-”

“Now!” all but screamed the usually calm and rather lazy soldier.

“Geeze,” grumbled the older man. “Someone’s on the rag.”

“I fucking heard that,” barked Grif as he roared the engine, the two Reds quickly disappearing over a hill. Caboose merely stood there, watching them go for a moment before he turned back to his base, walking in slowly. He actually seemed surprised when Simmons came up to speak with him.

“Wow, how did you not blow that?”

“Oh, Simmons. I did not know you were here,” said Caboose, generally surprised.

Stalling, somewhat surprised himself, the maroon soldier's voice squeaked in a hurt tone, “What, really? You _already_ forgot about me … but you just allowed me to stay and hide out here … if I read you that book.”

“Book, what book? Like a bed time story. I love those.”

“No … the one about where babies come from. The one that you wanted me to read to you in exchange for staying here?” questioned Simmons before a realization hit him. “ _Fuck_ , I just reminded you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, and that sounds like an excellent idea. I'll just go find that now,” chirped Caboose, all excited again as he practically skipped inside.

“… Me and my big mouth,” whispered the man to himself as he watched Caboose go around the corner.

Was it really to late to get himself shot?

…

“I found it,” said Caboose, too pleased with himself as he came into the enclosed living area, a yellow book in hand.

“Of course you did,” grumbled Simmons as he stopped taking inventory in the small mess hall. It had taken him a few minutes to find the hidden door to the living quarters, as all doors were hidden for the private rooms in the bases in case of attack. It would be useful to know in the future. Plus, he figured he was going to be here a few days and it was best to see what they had for supplies. There wasn’t much to eat. Most of it appeared to be long lived MREs that had been brought over from the old base or perhaps the crashed ship he had just ran past earlier. Regardless, how Caboose had gotten all of these supplies here without any apparent help was a mystery he wasn’t ready to question today.

“Just as wells get this over with,” grumbled Simmons as he looked away from the supplies and around for a place to sit. On either side of the kitchen there were two small bedrooms with multiple bunk beds each in them, a small communal shower between the two. There were even metal lockers in the corners for personal items. Most would think the living quarters quaint and barely tolerable, but compared to Blood Gulch, they were wonderful. It was simple and compact and seemingly meant to house six maybe eight men tops, but it at least had running water and electricity.

Promising himself he would take a shower after this nightmare was over, because he would likely feel really dirty after this, he decided one of the bunk beds would do.

Fuck, was he really going to go through with this?

Well, it was better than be gutted he supposed … barely.

Walking into the one bedroom that looked occupied, Simmons noted that Caboose was surprisingly a lot more tidy with his sleeping area than Grif. He then plopped down on the only unrolled mattress, offering a hand out for the book. Caboose, at his heels like a happy puppy, offered the book over gladly, sitting down next to the other man on the cot. He even stalled long enough to take his helmet off … even though he was basically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of reading the book simply title: _You and Your Body_.

Simmons, beside himself, actually frowned a little as those bright blue eyes stared at him before turning their attention back to the book. Caboose … was really young and yet he was out here all alone without any assistance from command. Yes, Command were jerks, but at least they would have made sure that there was someone else in Blue base to help the idiot.

Wondering for a moment if it was safe to take off his own helmet, Simmons sighed and slowly raised his hands and released his own latchs, air hissing as he did so. Caboose was _mostly_ harmless. Plus, sleeping in ones helmet wasn’t the most comfortable.

Placing his helmet to the side a moment later, Simmons gave a nervous false smile to the grinning idiot, the metal on the left side of his face tugging slightly at his freckled skin. He didn’t smile much so the movement felt strangely odd to him.

“It … won’t be that bad, hopefully,” grumbled Simmons mostly to himself as he slowly opened the book, Caboose's shoulder bumping into his as the Blue looked at the pages in wonderment.

The first page was a picture of a stereotypical family unit: a mom, a dad, and a baby between the two of them.

“I like this picture. I look at it sometimes, even though I don’t get all the other ones as much, but this one is nice. It doesn’t make me feel so … by myself,” said Caboose, his blond brows furrowing together as if confused before he turned his attention to the Red soldier, adding, “I’m glad you came for a sleep over, Simmons. Its kind of dark and scary here, and sometimes I have bad dreams … but you are here now so everything will be fun now. I know you are a Red, but you are also going to read to me. Tucker would never read to me and Church grew mad with all the questions I'd ask. You are not going to get mad if I ask questions, are you?”

Despite how much he wanted to call the idiot a cockbite and proclaim that he wasn't going to read the stupid book, Simmons found he couldn't say it. Strangely, here in this barely lived in stockade, next to a complete idiot, Simmons felt the most needed he had ever been in a long time.

His smile a little more genuine this time and he took a deep breath before murmuring, “I'll try my best, Caboose. I won't get mad if you have questions.”

“Okay, that will be nice,” said Caboose as he leaned against more against the maroon soldier, glad that perhaps someone else would tell him stories now and he wouldn't have to tell all of them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There, you got some fluff with your humor. Really, I felt bad that Caboose was all alone in the valley with only Epsilon, and we all know the AI couldn’t have been much company at the time. Plus, I don’t know if Caboose can take care of himself that well. So a little fluff was in order, because quite honestly I could see Simmons being a good leader with a little growth, especially if someone really depended on him. 
> 
> (Revisions August 2016)


	9. Seventeen Sisters and Paul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

“So … from what I understand … a boy and a girl have pillow talk … and there is a magical hole that girls have and that boys play with …. and then a cabbage forms inside the girl … and babies come out of them because the stork delivers them,” said Caboose as he stared at the last pages of the book.

Simmons sighed, wondering how that even made sense in Caboose's head, but he had this look of complete determination on his face that it almost seemed cruel to try and go over the reproduction thing again. Honestly though he could only blame himself for some of the confusion he supposed. It was the middle of the night and they were still reading this stupid book so he had tried to cop his way out of it with the old cabbage patch lie and finally the stork lie about where babies come from. Those things seemed to confuse the Blue even more than basic human biology though so Simmons tried the book again.

Yep, should have let Grif run him over. It at least would have been a marginally quicker death than death by stupid.

Really, who had allowed Caboose into the military? There was no way a recruiter would have allowed him in. It was as if someone had gotten a hold of the rejects list and made the Red and Blue's Army. That explained Grif, he supposed … but what did that make him?

Simmons hands gripped at the You and Your Body book in almost a hateful way as he dwelt on that idea for a moment.

“Simmons?” interrupted Caboose, a look of determination on his face. “I still don't understand how I cannot catch pregnancy. Tucker got it. Is Tucker now a girl? Can I be turned into a girl?”

A part of Simmons wanted to say _yes_ , he really did, because even though Caboose was rather clueless, he didn't want the other to have false information. After, all he had turned Grif into a girl. At least on paper, though to command, that was all that mattered apparently.

Rubbing his eyes, telling himself he did not want to deal with that discussion as well, he grumbled, “You mean the pregnant guy?”

“Yes, Tucker. He was very mean. I do not tell stories of him to my best friend … that I'm not supposed to tell you about,” finished the blond, only to quickly stall himself when he realized what he had said.

Simmons sat there a minute before he ignored the last comment and asked awkwardly, “Uh, huh … Are you sure that Tucker was a guy at all? I mean … did he have man bits downstairs?”

Sitting there a moment, as if trying to understand what the other had said, Caboose hummed, “Well, you see … he had this rock and he did things back there, private things. He didn't like anyone going back there. I really didn't know why at the time, but I think I understand now.”

“Ah … uh, gross. I didn't need to know that,” cringed Simmons as he closed the book, deciding that now was the time to go to bed and he'd save the trauma of how Caboose thought a man got pregnant for another day.

Throwing the book onto a night stand as he stood up and stretched, his robotic parts humming slightly, Simmons sighed. Well, at least that was over, though a part of him still said dying would have been less emotionally scaring than that. Deciding the bunk across the way seemed comfortable enough, he unrolled the mattress and wandered around as he looked for a scratchy blanket. Sadly, the only thing he found were blue blankets and sheets, not that he was too surprised.

Caboose, meanwhile, had somehow managed to get his own armor off and was now snuggling into his own bed with his puma stuffed animal, yawning as he murmured in a half sleepy daze, “Simmons.”

“Yeah,” grumbled Simmons as he fixed his own cot, slightly irritated and yet glad that at least someone recognized his intelligence around here.

“Thank you, for … teaching me things. No one ever seems to try very hard, except for you and my seventeen sisters,” said Caboose with a tired smile as he snuggled deeper into his sheets like a tired puppy.

Despite himself, Dick had to stall and ask, “What, really? Seventeen? Are you kidding? What, did your mom birth litters or something? How could your dad even support a family that big? I was a single kid and my parents seemed to have enough issues. In fact, I'm pretty sure my dad worked overtime just for an excuse to ignore me.”

“Well, other men gave them money. They would just give them stacks of money so I don't think it was much of an issue. In fact, I believe it was quite a _lucrative_ business. At least that was what my dad said,'' said Caboose, gaining a raised eyebrow from Simmons as he kicked off his metallic boots, cot made with his gun leaning against the wall at his side.

“Okay,” said Simmons as he started taking off his metallic gloves, one digit at a time, part of him cringing already at the thought of seeing the metallic gears that he would soon be exposing under his left hand. “Lets say I don't completely believe you. What are your seventeen sisters' names?”

Smiling, as if greeted by a warm thought, Caboose suddenly started listing names which was a surprise for someone who seemed not to remember … well, anything.

“Precious, Chasity, Angel, Scarlett, Twilight,Star, Paris, Dallas, Diamond,” Caboose stopped to take a breath. “Lola, Porsche, Nevaeh, Coco, Flutteryshy, Luscious, Chardonnay, and Trixie. They were all very pretty and all very nice.”

Simmons sat there for a moment, not even worried about his metallic hand as he looked at the other in complete disbelief, “W-what? Are you sure those were their real names? I mean they sound more like something a … um … dancer would have.”

“Simmons,” gasped Caboose, sounding almost angry at first before he added almost happily, “How did you know they liked dancing? They just loved dancing especially with Paul! Simmons … Can you read minds?”

“What, no,” squeaked Simmons, a little thrown off by the Blue's words as his mind tried to translate what exactly the other had meant, “But … when you are saying Paul, you mean _pole_ , right? As in _pole dancing_?”

“Yes, they loved dancing with Paul. Sometimes they would dance so fast their clothes would fall off,” said Caboose, not even a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Not that Simmons actually thought the idiot could joke, but to grow up in that environment and still need the sex talk … yeah, it might have been easier to let Grif kill him.

“And … these were your sisters? Your dad didn't get mad or upset or become homicidally enraged at all?” asked Simmons, a headache forming as he finished buttoning his red plaid sleepy pajamas (though where he got them, no one knows), a part of him so damn tired and frustrated that he just knew he had to go to bed now even if Caboose accidental smothered him in his sleep.

“Well … they weren't my real, real sisters. They worked with mom and asked for me to call them sisters. And dad didn't get mad because they all worked under dad, and when my dad said I should start dancing with Paul as well, my sisters all said I should go to college instead. And so I had this very nice man in a uniform help me fill out some paperwork for college, and then a ship came to get me and I have been in college ever since.”

Simmons, sitting on the edge of his bed, didn't know if he should laugh or cry at the other because there was no way Caboose was that stupid and yet it made so much sense at the same time. Honestly though, he was too tired for this shit and he didn't really want to think bout it right now. He didn't want to think of the young, innocent, and freakishly strong younger man that shouldn't really be here. In fact, he was really sure that none of them were supposed to be here.

Closing his eyes, falling into his own cot, Simmons listened to his internal gears hum and he sighed. Tonight promised to be horrible for him, likely filled with dreams of Grif throwing knives at him, but at least he knew someone would be having good dreams tonight.

And with that thought in mind, Simmons fell asleep, a part of his mind telling him the day could have gone worse because at least Caboose seemed happy … And at least he wasn't dead.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless fluff chapter. Completely shameless. Plus, this is kind of my head-cannon for Caboose's background now. Next chapter's pretty much done so it should be a faster update than the last two.


	10. Purple is Still Not a Color

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

Elsewhere, a few miles from the Red and Blue bases where men and men-that-were-called-women-but-technically-weren't dreamed unsettling dreams, a Pelican touched down in the dead of night. Most of the ship's occupants had their own responsibilities, looking for clues to the Freelancer Project. They personally cared little of the Reds or Blues that existed in Valhalla. To them, the Sim-Soldiers were just a piece of the puzzle, something vaguely important as a resource though not important enough to be guarded.

And yet, one armored form titled his head in the direction of the Valhalla bases and hiked up the pack he was carrying, his armor seemingly black in the gloom of the night. To some, he would seem a nefarious figure … until he tripped down the hillside the Pelican had been parked on, screeching the whole way down, only to plop back to his feet with an, "I'm fine!" at the end.

Yes, certainly a  _nefarious_  figure indeed … not that I would put too much stake in that. As a narrator, I'm not the most reliable of figures.

…

Meanwhile, at Red Base, Sarge stood guard, looking up at the moon, glancing back at the entrance of Red Base from time to time as a growl or a snore would escape the resident  _female_  of the base. Personally, he thought she was killing a baboon in there with all the noise she was making.

Honestly, he wanted to fill the void with an Ode to Killing Grif as he tried to serenade the moon, but he just didn't feel it. It just didn't feel right to sing about killing … well, a girl. It was just so wrong that Grif was now technically a girl and it irritated every red cell in his body to the point of foaming rage! And for Simmons to be the one to do this to him?! He had half a mind to make his skin into a rug! A partially metallic and freckly rug, but a rug nonetheless.

If only there was a way to change a woman into a man?

Sarge almost dropped his shot gun as a brilliant (at least by his standards) idea hit him like a warthog. Slowly, ever so slowly he walked into the base, his form basically abuzz as he dwelt on how to undo the female-Grif tragedy. And then, in a way that would wake most if someone was creepily standing over them, Sarge stood over Grif's bed and smiled under his helmet.

He could work with this. He just needed some help … a maybe a set of ovaries.

…

The sun was on the rise, just blossoming in the distance as a frail mix of orange and red, when the figure from the Pelican earlier that night finally stalled on a cliff overhanging Valhalla. One might have thought of it as a threatening stance, perhaps one of a conqueror or a surveyor … until they saw in the sunlight that he was wearing purple armor.

Yes, purple.

"Well, that as quite a hike, invigorating and super healthy and just look at that view," said Doc to himself as he peered down at the gulley, part of him noting the high peaks of the two bases. One was aglow and the other seemed to be offline when it came to electricity … or invisible magic for the technology-sensitive.

"Okay, now command wanted me to check on the yellow soldier. The only female soldier," said Doc as he read the message on his HUD, only to frown for a moment before he asked himself, "Well, that must be a typo. Red doesn't have any female soldier … Hmm, they must mean Blue Team with Sister."

Looking back towards Blue Base, Doc nodded and then looked over the cliff edge, frowning, "So how do I get dow-AAAhhhhhhhhhh!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doc is hard to write, for me at least, and yet he is one of my favorites. As for Sarges diabolical plans … we will just see. Also I just loved, loved, the newest RvsB PSA with camping. Yep, did not expect it to crossover with Minecraft. It was just too perfect. XD


	11. Suicide is Still an Option

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

Simmons curled deeper into his sheets, ignoring Caboose's attempt to be quiet while making breakfast. He knew he should get up. He knew he should get up early like he always does every morning, but there was no lazy Grif here that needed to be woken nor a drill sergeant Sarge. Nope, there was just him and the idiot.

“Oh sorry, sorry, sorry. Oh that's on fire. It's burning, burning. Oh, I should put that out. Mmmm… how do I do that? Ice, ice, I need ice. Why do we only have ice-cream?”

Simmons groaned, part of himself telling him he was just being bitter and should get up before the whole base burned down. Really, why hadn't they sent any Blue's to take care of the simpleton?

Oh… oh yeah, that was his fault. They didn't know the Blues existed.

Throwing his sheet off of himself, he yawned and sat on the edge of his bunk for a moment as he tried to think of the good news about being stuck in Blue Base. Well, at least he would get to do all of the… well, everything. And that was pretty much it.

Getting to his feet, he stalled and raised a brow, surprised as all hell to see not only food to be on fire, but a glass of orange juice was well.

Standing there a moment, putting his armor's gloves on while ignoring his metallic hand as he did so, he couldn't help but ask, “How… did you start orange juice on fire, Caboose? I don't even… I didn't even think that was possible.”

“No one ever does,” said Caboose as he stood there before the oven, something bursting into flames behind him.

Simmons could only sigh, placing an armored hand over the glass of orange juice and smothering the flames. He then shooed the Blue away, taking up the stance at the oven. It looked like he was cooking… dirt. Simmon's gagged slightly and looked at the puppy dog smile Caboose was giving him.

“I was trying to make breakfast. I was making pancakes, chocolate pancakes.”

Giving the other a look, part of him wondering if the Blue had been eating dirt this whole time, Simmons merely nodded as he said, “Uh, yeah. How about I make breakfast… and pretty much every other meal from now on. I'll make us something and you can go get dressed. You can get dressed by yourself, can't you?”

“Yes, I have been practicing. I am much better at it now,” said Caboose as he started towards his locker, already struggling to get his night shirt off… and failing spectacularly. Honestly, he wondered if Caboose had always been this stupid or if maybe he had been damaged somehow. Maybe by that O'Malley guy?

Simmons cringed at the memory of the AI's abrasive thoughts the one time he had sported the AI. He nearly jumped out of his own skin when he heard a muffled voice call out, “Hello, anyone there?”

Turning around, fumbling for his side arm, he looked at the entrance to the living quarters. Was that him or had that sounded like… Doc? No, there was no way. He had just imagined it with his thoughts of O'Malley and all that AI crap and yet he heard it again.

“Um, hello? Blues? Anyone here?”

Sighing, patting the fire out on the stove quickly, he thought about sending Caboose out but thought better of it when he noticed the other had somehow managed to place his chest piece on backwards. He'd just take a glance, that was it, if only to get out of dressing the other.

Stepping out into the main hall, looking at the door to the side that was labeled _secret_ _friend_ , he turned his attention to the entrance. Pistol in hand, cursing himself slightly for not dragging his larger gun into the kitchen with him, he tried to peek around the corner.

Not that he needed he needed a gun. It was only Doc standing in the entrance.

“Oh, hi there, Simmons. How you doing? This is a nice place, but it’s kind of… Really, not to be color insensitive, but Blue,” said Doc as he stood a few yards from the entrance of the base. “Not saying there is anything wrong with being… not-Blue… but I couldn't help but notice that your armor really doesn't, not to say there is anything wrong with that, but it is rather r-”

“What do you want Doc?” Simmons finally sighed, not wanting to deal with this _at all_. He was sure that the sink was now on fire. How? Why? Did it really matter? He had left Caboose alone for more than ten seconds and that was all that mattered.

“Oh, well, new command sent me to do formal checkups of all the soldiers and to remain for the more… delicate of figures,” said Doc.

Not that Simmons was surprised by the announcement. He recalled the looks he and his team had received when the question of their mentality was brought into question. New command was probably certain they were all insane, bat shit insane. It figures they sent a babysitter.

Too bad their babysitter was an idiot.

He was seeing a trend here, but what did that say for him?

Simmons quickly sighed at the thought, actually missing Grif for a moment. Grif might not have actually listened to what he was saying, but he was at least there to distract him from the hard questions like: why were they here?

Frowning at the thought under his helmet, Simmons turned his attention back to the medic, grumbling, “So they sent us a babysitter. Great, wonderful, I'm so ecstatic I can hardly contain myself. Though, do tell, what exactly do you want with Blue Base then?”

“Well, apparently, command was worried about the mental and physical health of the only female in the group. They have her marked for yellow armor though they say her name is Dexter Grif. I just figured it was a typo and that they meant Kaikaina Grif of Blue Base. Though, it was strange that they even had her marked under the wrong team as well. It seems they think she is on Red Team. Not that I think there is a need for a separation of the two groups. Honestly, I think we should all sit down for some herbal tea and get along.”

Simmons tried not to face palm himself. It was a split minute decision and yet it seemed to be influencing every moment of his life afterward. It was but a letter. One stupid letter!

Who was Kaikaina anyway?

“Who is Kaikaina?” said Simmons, his thoughts coming to life.

Doc stood there a moment, looking Simmons up and down before he said in his ever joyful tone, “Ooh, yes, everyone called her Sister. Is she in? They really wanted me to do a psychological evaluation while I was here. Don't know why. She seemed rather free spirited and stable to me.”

This time Simmons did face-palm himself. How could he forget Sister?

“Is something wrong, Simmons? I couldn't help but notice that you just hit yourself in the face. Do you want to talk about it? I just got my online degree in psychology and I'm just dying to try it out. We can sit down, have some tea and talk about your feelings. Doesn't that sound like fun?” said Doc, super excited to likely butcher his newest trade.

Slumping his head back, Simmons decided there was no point in lying as he admitted, “Sister is not here. Hell, I don't even know if she is alive being left alone with Lopez… or knocked up with some horrible, impossible robot baby. Either way, what you want is Red Base. The record is right. Well, mostly right. You are looking for Dexter Grif… because… I kind of… not really my fault I would like to add… turned him into a girl. So… yeah.”

Doc stood there a moment, completely surprised as if he could not comprehend the gibberish that had just escaped the other.

Then, completely misunderstanding, he said, “Ooh, I see. Well, I'm glad you two finally expressed your feelings to each other. I didn't really expect Grif to be the _girl_ in the relationship, but  it’s nice that you two are no longer skirting around your emotions for each other.”

Standing there a moment, Simmons tried to take in what the medic had just said. He didn't… there was no way he just presumed… What?!

“Wait,” said Simmons, his voice incredibly squeaky, “You think that me and Grif… That we could have done… and that he was on the bottom… Ew, no, no, no! I have not _slept_ with Grif! Why would you even think that?”

Doc, still as chipper as ever, chuckled, “You don't have to lie to me, Simmons. I am a firm believer in the Don't Ask, Don't Tell Policy, though. So if you don't feel comfortable talking about it right now, don't feel obligated to. We'll have plenty of time to go over that.”

“Go over what?” said a third voice, Caboose finally having figured out his armor enough to get dressed and come outside.

“About how Simmons turned Grif into a girl,” said Doc simply. “Right now he is having trouble expressing his romantic feelings. Isn't that right, Simmons? ”

For a moment Caboose stood there as Simmons placed his hands over his visor, completely mortified, even more so at Caboose's next words.

“Oooh, yes. I understand. Simmons did turn Grif into a girl and now Grif is mad and Simmons is hiding out here, which, by the way, you don't know. Nobody knows Simmons is here. I let him stay here because he said I couldn't catch pregnancy as a man, but I told him about Tucker being pregnant and he didn't believe me so he read me a book... I'd have read it myself, but I can only read cursive,” said Caboose in that matter-o-factly tone that meant he actually didn't understand a thing.

Simmons actually considered bringing the pistol to his head and tapping it against his helm … just to end this. Whatever _this_ was.

Doc was now speaking to Caboose about the body book and likely confusing the Blue even more, and Simmons had had enough. Sighing he grumbled aloud, “Well, I'm going to go kill myself. If only to spare myself from any further stupidity.”

Calling after the man as he crept back into the base, Doc murmured, “Good talk, Simmons! I'll be by to talk about those suicide issues later and then we can make some smores! Now, I'm going to go have that checkup with Grif. It says here he hasn't had a breast exam in… well… forever.”

…

Meanwhile, across the cannon, Grif suddenly awoke, breathing heavy. Someone was just talking about him, he could feel it. In fact, he could still feel it… like someone was touching him. In fact, they were wrapping something around his waist!

“Egah!” cried Grif as he was sat up, nearly knocking heads with none other than -

“Sarge?! What are you doing?”

Grif sat up in his bed, pulling his sheets closer like a bashful teenage girl that had just been caught half-nude. He eyed the _tape measure?_ in the other's hand wearily as Sarge took a step back. It wasn't even a fabric one. Was Sarge going to finally do him in by strangulation? Huh, he'd always thought it would be the shotgun.

The tape measure was rolled back up with a snap though, the old man frowning at Grif for a moment, not even commenting on the space invasion as he barked, “Up and at ’em, princess.”

Grif moaned and flopped back into his bed, a horrible reminder brought to his attention. Right, he was a chick now, wasn't he? Bastard, he'd kill him when he found him.

“We have things to do. The electricity needs to be restored, so I called Lopez. Your sister is… uh… dead by the way –”

“What!” cried Grif, still wondering when this nightmare was going to end as he sat up, not completely believing the other's words.

“– And he will be by soon. He'd be here already, but I sent him to get some _perishable_ items … and medical equipment. Hehhhehe. Yeah, things are starting to look up,” said Sarge in a far more pleasant and unsettling tone than he was in yesterday.

Sitting up, wearily placing his feet on the floor as the older soldier walked away whistling, Grif couldn't help but get a sinking feeling. Why did he feel like something horrible had been decided last night… and what the fuck was with the tape measure?!

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you that can tell where this is going, good for you. If not, it still promises to be hilarious. XD


	12. Just Like the Circus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

“Ugghhhh ….”

A moan echoed over the empty expanse of Blood Gulch. If Red Team was about, they might have raised their guns high and thought a horrible day had happen upon them: zombies.

Yet, the world was neither as simplistic nor as exciting as that. It was Blood Gulch after all. Instead, another moan escaped what seemed to be Blue Base. A few more pathetic whines followed after before a few foul mouthed curses filled the Blue Base, “Mother fuckin' fuck. Ugggh! What the hell happened last night? Damn it. Everything hurts.”

A tan hand slapped against the exterior wall of the base and out stumbled a well-endowed young woman, wearing nothing but a pair of undies and a yellow wife beater, her hand wrapped around her abdomen. She moaned again and looked around as if trying to recollect what happened last night. She remembered spending the evening getting ready for her nightly rave and then she turned around and ran into… the brown douche.

Jose, or whatever the fuck his name was.

She just remembered seeing the butt of his gun coming towards her face and then… not much.

She stood there a moment, the first thought coming to her head spoken aloud, “Did he rape me? Because if he did, even if he's a robot, that was _hot_ , but where is all this blood coming from? Am I miscarrying again? Fuckkkk.”

Pulling a hand away from her abdomen, she frowned at a thin red line running horizontally across her abdomen. She slowly raised up her shirt and stared at her bruised and bloodied up abdomen. It was a wound that would have killed most, but this was Sister after all.

She groaned and cursed the robot.

“Really? Really, really?! Did he take my fricken kidney? I was saving that one!” she whined, taking her fingers and poking at her squishy parts for a moment. “Wait, no, no it’s there. Hmm, is that my… what?! Really? He took my uterus? Jerk-face!”

She stood there a moment, sighing, before she shrugged it off, “Oh well, lucky I had two.”

…

Grif, meanwhile, raised a brow as he watched none other than Lopez drive up to base, a smorgasbord of supplies on the back of the old _fixed_ warthog and yet there was this cooler like thing buckled in the passenger's seat. It was all by itself and almost seemed to be lovingly buckled in and cared for. If Grif didn't know any better, he would have guessed that Lopez took pride in the item.

For a moment the two Reds looked at each other, staring, as if communicating through thought. Though, if they could, Lopez would have undoubtedly thought-spoke in Spanish and the moment of epic evolution would have been wasted and forgotten moments later.

“Where have you been? You missed the whole ‘Blue-Guy wasn't really a ghost, but instead an AI’. But he was still a dick,” said Grif in almost a bitter tone as Lopez continued to stare at him, the orange armored man pretending that Lopez wasn't staring at his chest plate for an elongated period of time.

“ _¿Se dan cuenta lo que se esté usando, imbécil? Incluso en el caso de tu hermana de que pieza torácica es grande_ **(** **Do you realize what you are wearing, moron? Even for your sister that chest piece is big** **)** ,” said Lopez as he eyed the other, shaking his head slightly in judgment. Well, at least Sarge's request made a lot more sense.

Grif stared at the other for a moment before he murmured, “I have no idea what you said and I honestly don't fucking care.”

“... _Yo te odio_ **(** **I hate you** **)**.”

“But … what do you got there?” said Grif as he eyed the cooler, curiosity getting the best of him. “Is it something … I can eat?”

“... _No_ **(** **No** **)**.”

“Are you s-”

“ _S_ _í_ **(** **Yes** **)**.”

“But what else would you have in a cooler? It has to be something. Something deep fried and covered in grease, perhaps?” continued Grif, his stomach rumbling with an _insistent need_.

“... _Sólo vine a ver qué iba a hacer el viejo. Estoy seguro que será humillante para ti y voy a disfrutar... Nunca tanto_ **(** **I only came here to see what the old man was going to do to you. I'm sure it will be humiliating for you and I will enjoy... Ever so much** **)** ,” said Lopez, his tone as emotionless as usual though just a tint of humor could be heard vibrating in his voice box. He had thought the old man crazy as usual, but now the picture was coming together and part of him was almost excited to see how this was going to veer out of control.

“... I'm pretty sure you said sandwich in there. A sandwich and then a nap. Yeah, that sounds good,” said Grif as he tilted his head slightly as if daydreaming about that very thing.

“ _Sí, es un sándwich. Un delicioso sándwich para usted_ **(** **Yes,** **it’s** **a sandwich. A delicious sandwich just for you** **)** ,” said Lopez sarcastically. As sarcastically as the robot could, that is.

Grif just stared at the other for a few moments as if he had just understood what the other had said and was thinking of what action he should take. Slowly, ever so slowly, he started to reach an orange hand toward the belted cooler. One could count the seconds in painfully slowly accuracy as those orange digits grew closer and closer to Lopez's cooler. And yet, right before the orange fingers could touch the lid, Lopez suddenly lashed out and slapped the other's hand away. Grif, pulling his hand into his chest, looked hurt for a moment (as much as a grown man wearing a mask can that is) before slowly reaching for the cooler again only to have Lopez slap it away again. This game of slap away continued for about five minutes, until Sarge finally stalled behind the two.

The gruff old man, Sarge, finally entered the scene and watched for about three seconds before he barked, “Lopez, good to see you made it. We have things to fix, things to build, Blues to destroy. As for the cooler… We can deal with the Grif issue later. Come on **,** soldier.”

Sarge then gave Grif a cold hard stare as if yearning deeply to say something or to shoot the other in the face, but instead he turned away, calling after Lopez to follow him.

Lopez, jumping out of the glorified jeep, quickly made his way over to the cooler and unbuckled it before Grif could even reach for it, his words seemingly harmless and yet they were anything but, “ _Usted no puede disfrutar de esta princesa, pero estoy seguro_ **(** **You may not enjoy this princess, but I sure will** **)**.”

Unsure as to why, Grif's loins shivered and he felt there was something far worse than sandwiches in store for him… especially when he noticed a dot of purple coming his way. Shoulders slumping, Grif could only groan as the purple dot perked up and waved at him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … I don't know if I pulled Lopez off. He seems almost sinister in this. Then again he knows something Grif doesn't and is slightly lording over him. Either way, this will end badly for Grif. Also, I murdered that Spanish, or Google translator did at least, but apparently Rooster Teeth does a terrible job as well so I figure it’s fitting. XD


	13. Lopez is a Sandwich Stealer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

There, in the distance, was a horror. Something so dreaded that it could not be killed. It could only be suffered and endured: Medical Officer Super Private First Class Frank DuFresne.

Grif's shoulder's slumped, his gun going somewhat slack in his hands as the purple soldier stopped jogging, coming to a halt before the orange armored man, his words as perky and sickeningly friendly as usual, “Grif, long time no see. You look … bumpier … than the last time I saw you.”

He cursed Simmons’ name again, hating his breast plate once more as he bitterly asked, “What the fuck are you doing here, Doc? Have you come to rub aloe vera on my pride? Not that I have much anymore … or ever really.”

Doc chuckled, “Oh no, I came to do an examination. New command requested it.”

Standing still for a moment, Grif was about to ask what kind of examination, when he heard the cock of a shot gun. Immediately, he sighed, figuring that the tip of that gun was pointed at him as per usual. Instead, he tilted his head and was surprised to see that … it was a pointed at Doc.

Now that was an interesting development.

“What do you want, you damn dirty half Blue?” asked Sarge as he peered at the other, the Red Base lighting up in the background as electricity was restored … even though it had been under five minutes since Lopez had shown up.

“Oh, hello. New command sent me. Wanted me to check up on all of you, mentally and physically. They wanted to make sure everyone was happy and healthy, but not exceedingly so,” said Doc, surprisingly not at all afraid of the other; then again he had O'Malley in his head for a few months. If that's doesn't break yah, what will? “They really wanted me to talk with you, make sure everything was A-Okay up in the cranium. In fact, they really really really _really_ wanted me to make sure it was not full of crazy.”

“Did you not get enough ‘really’s in that sentence?” asked Grif sarcastically.

“Not really, Lieutenant Commander Badrock used about two dozen of those in his report even though his subordinate kept stating that was grammatically incorrect.” said Doc simply.

Unsurprisingly, Sarge did not take that as an insult. Instead, he chuckled, lowering his shotgun as he spoke, “Hehehe. I knew that they would recognize true genius. I would be honored if they would use my grey matter when I'm dead for a smart AI. My only request is that Grif is dead before me … _wait_. Dang nabbit it. I keep forgetting that Grif is a chick now,” grumbled Sarge bitterly, Grif barking, ' _I am not a girl_ ' in the background.

“But what do you want, dirty half Blue. Have you come to try to collect our secrets?! I'll kill yah!”

Not at all perturbed, Doc shrugged, “No, like I said, I came for checkups. We'll have to check your memory later, but for now Grif hasn't had a pap-smear or a breast exam in quite a while and is quite overdue, apparently.”

Sarge stood there for a moment, as if dissecting what was just said, before he chuckled almost darkly, stating, “Yeah, you go ahead and do that. Make sure he's _nice and healthy_. In fact, feel free to use the new medical room. It's on the second subterranean floor. Hehehe.”

Watching Sarge walk backwards and into the shadows of the building, Grif couldn't help but feel his stomach drop, the feeling of foreboding worse than it usually had been lately.

...

“Holy shit! He's only been here like three minutes! What the … how did he even fit all of this in here?! He had time for this and to turn on the electricity. That asshole! It was hot last night, I would have liked a fan or something,” grumbled Grif as he pressed his face for a moment against the mini glass elevator window, trying to peer down to see how far this subterranean elevator really went. True, he could have just hit the second floor button, but he really wanted to see if there were eight levels to this thing.

Seems there were.

“You mean it wasn’t this way before?” said Doc as he stood in the back of the elevator, his tone critical.

“Fuck no … I don’t even … We were outside for three minutes! Three minutes, dude. Three, and then Lopez happened,” said Grif with a frown as he pulled away from the small window to look in Doc’s direction, the purple medic tilting his head slightly.

“Are you sure, Grif? Have you forgotten this place because it’s unpleasant for you? Is Lopez unpleasant for you? Did something bad happen here? Does it remind you of your father or perhaps the many levels of your sexuality? This is a safe place. You can tell me anything you need to.”

For a moment Grif just stared at the other, both of them bobbing slightly from side to side due to the movement of the elevator. One didn’t need to see the Hawaiian’s face to know his great amount of loathing for the other, his tone bitter and almost Simmons-like when he finally spoke, “Don’t psychoanalyze me, asshole. The only reason I came with you at all is that Sarge was giving me the stink eye which generally means he’s going to put me to work if I don’t pretend to do something … like cook brownies or some shit. Yeah, it’s better than running laps, but at the same time I now feel the weight of gender roles which I have never felt before and quite frankly … it pisses me off.”

There was suddenly a scribbling noise in the small movable room, Doc writing something down like a mad man. Grif, finally realizing that Doc was treating this like a session, sighed and clunked his helmet against the elevator door loudly.

It was going to be one of those days.

Finally, if only to offer Grif a refute from the stupidity of it all, the elevator door opened to a large open room, the eighth floor, Lopez standing there with his welding torch. For a minute there was nothing but staring. It seemed endless, like it could go on forever, this staring of _staring-ness_.

But Grif's attention span really isn't that long.

“Yo, Lopez. Where is the medical room? Sarge told me to get a medical exam, but I'll probably just fall asleep in my helmet while pretending to listen to whatever Doc is saying. A bed would be nice though,” said the orange soldier as he shrugged his shoulders. Not really giving a fuck if Lopez actually said or did anything. He really just wanted to see what was down here.

Staring at Grif for a moment more, Lopez stopped whatever he was doing and strangely headed into the elevator with them, hitting the second floor button. The only thing that could have made this any less awkward would have been elevator music, but apparently that wasn't available at the moment. A few moments later, with the swish of opening doors, the mech led the two men to what looked like an actual medical room and not just a room of scalpels or something equally disturbing. And just when he had thought it far too odd for the robot had actually help them when Grif was sure that Lopez hated his fleshy guts, Lopez walked across the room and opened the refrigerator there.

He grasped the cooler from earlier and just stared at Grif silently and then tilted his head … as if smiling.

Yeah, Grif was getting real sick of this shit. He almost, almost, missed Simmons. At least he knew that idiot wouldn't stand over his bed at night or hide maybe-sandwiches from him. Though he was growing more and more sure … that whatever was in the cooler … wasn't a sandwich at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the unusual long wait. Right now I'm just trying to figure out where to end this. I do hope to continue with an update once a week though. Later.


	14. Bet Your B-Cups on It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proofreader: Kira Kyuu

“Okay, have a seat. You can start taking off your armor,” said Doc, a bow-chick-a-wow-wow echoing somewhere far away.

Both men looked around for a moment as if hearing something, but then shrugged it off.

“Anyway, as I was saying, strip your armor,” said Doc, far too cheery.

Grif just stared at him for a moment. The staring commenced for about a good minute or maybe ten, the clock in the corner is just a painting anyway, before Grif snorted, “Are you serious? I was just going to nap on the exam bed.”

Doc stared at him for a moment before taking out what looked like a writing pad, his psycho-babble tone coming back to the surface. “And have you been tired a lot? Do you feel you sleep to … ignore your problems? Your feelings? What are your feelings, Grif? What are your feels about say … Simmons?”

A moment of awkward silence filled the exam room before Grif growled and moved to take his helmet off, grumbling the whole time. “Medical exam it is. _Creepy psycho-babble shit. Punch you in the face if my arms weren't so tired. This is all Simmons fault. I'll kill him when I get the chance. He is soooo dead._ ”

Said exam, of course, lasted a whole five minutes.

“Well, generally your leg is supposed to kick out when I hit it and your blood … is it always Oreo colored?”

“Pff, I don't fucking know. Do I look like a vampire? At least it isn't a yellow color anymore,” groused Grif, getting more and more irritated that he wasn't currently sleeping. “Are we done yet? All that reflex crap has left me exhausted and other sissy crap.”

Doc, still bemused over the blood samples he had collected, chirped, “But what about your pelvic and breast exam? You should have had one a decade ago.”

Grif, about to lay down, stalled and looked down at his chest. He only had a wife beater on, but he thought it was fairly obvious that he lacked breast. Looking at Doc with a raised brow, he grumbled, “Are you serious, Doc? I don't even have boobs. There's nothing there to check.”

Shaking his head, making mental notes about body self esteem issues, Doc sighed, “Now, Grif, I know some girls feel inadequate if they don't have C-cups or D-cups, but there is nothing wrong with being a healthy B-cup.”

Drawing back, flabbergasted, Grif choked, “Did you just say I have B-cup moobs? I'm not a chick! Alright! I don't even have on a bra.”

“Confining brassiers grow more and more out of fashion, especially in the military. Women's rights have moved far, Dexter. Can I call you, Dexter?” said Doc as he started to put on a pair of gloves.

Grif glared for a moment before he flopped down and rolled over, closing his eyes, “You know what, fuck it. I'm taking a nap.”

Gloves snapping, Doc merely nodded and wrote something else down in his note pad.

…

The sound of a moving elevator drew Doc's head up about an hour later.

He had been writing down in a medical file that was now on strangely decorative stationary. He couldn't help but tilted his head though as Lopez stepped inside the exam room without even knocking, a cooler under his arm. Then, as if a diabolical shadow or something equally sinister, Sarge followed after chuckling softly to himself. Strangely, both had aprons on and surgical face masks … over their armor. Sarge's apron, actually, was technically a cooking apron more so than a surgical apron. Kiss my shotgun boldly printed on the front.

Also, why Lopez need a surgical mask was beyond anyone. It wasn't like he could actually breathe.

“Why hi, guys. Don't you look nice. Do you need the room or something? Grif is still sleeping. He was just plum tuckered out … though I haven't even finished the entire examination. His blood pressure was on par with a credit score and I think his veins were actually pumping Oreos instead of actual blood, but at least Simmons' organs still seem to be functioning fine. Study to say for sure.”

Sarge, coming forward, merely chuckled, “Good to hear. Good to hear. Now you damn dirty half-Blue … how do you feel about being a nurse for a little while? Heheh.”

Doc almost dropped the medical report in excitement. “Oh do I ever! I even have the nurses uniform in my medical bag.”

No one wisely questioned that. Trust me, you don't want to think about it or the mental image might scar you. So, instead, all eyes turned to Grif, Sarge stating, “Well then nurse. How about getting the patient prepped for surgery by tying him down to the bed. Lopez will get the anesthesia ready.”

Starting, nurse hat already on on top of his armored helm, Doc couldn't hep but ask, “We have anethesia?”

“Hehehe,” chuckled Sarge as Lopez stepped forward, pulling his fist back. “Who said we need actually anethesia.”

Grif didn't even get to wake up before he was knocked out cold again.

...

Elsewhere, far from a half Red half Blue medic, a surgeon that was more of a mechanic, and a sadistically smiling –if Lopez had the ability to smile- robot, was a man and his coffee. It was a lovely roast. Brew to the perfect temperature that tricks you into drinking it because it seems cool enough, but actually burns the top of your mouth in horrible delicious agony only to make you want to poop and hour or two later during an important meeting.

Said man wasn’t much different from his coffee though one was food and the other alive. He could fool people into thinking him something pleasant and then shoot you if the knee if need be. Don’t let that upbeat Texan accent fool you. He could literally scare the shit out of you if he needed to, but I won’t go into that.

Regardless, said man was one Lieutenant Commander Badrock of the UNSC and he was trying to clear up the Director's … _mess_.

Sitting at his desk, staring at the report in a dull manner as his coffee sat losing that perfect burn-your-mouth-temperature at his side, the man slammed the folder shut unable to read another word. How had no one noticed these maniacs running around sooner?

He knew the answer: because they had had bigger problems.

The Commander sighed and threw the report on his desk. That was it. He couldn't look at another word or another report on an experiment gone wrong or how unethical it was to begin with.

Putting his feet up onto his desk, sighing, he reached for his almost-no-longer-burn-your-mouth coffee in its Charon Industries mug. He still had no idea what poor bastard he stole that mug from, but he had been thirsty at the time and the poor underling was walking by with two mugs. So one was bound to go missing.

It was his favorite mug now.

His _precious_.

He petted the mug thoughtful for a second feeling that it was still warm. He then was about to take the first bitterly blessed sip when there was a knock on the door … causing him to almost spill.

He immediately sighed and stared at the file that now had a single drop of coffee on it. A file labeled _Fillis?Shelia_. He hadn’t started reading it yet, but how could a file have a question mark right in the title? He doubted he would ever know. Could they not decide what to name it? That seemed so unlike the Director. He always knew what everything and everyone was … even if they didn’t know themselves.

“Come in,” said the man behind the desk, its usual chirpiness not present. “Better be something worth coffee stains.”

There was some whispering on the other side of the door and then a small battle-banter of _no-you-go-in-first_ occurred. He could even hear the shoving match until, unsurprisingly, a form in white was all but forced into his room, another white form shutting the door behind them both.

McKay somehow resisted the urge to claw at the door like a caged animal when his superior grumbled, “Report.”

“Yes, sir,” said McKay as he did a quick salute. “Ah … sorry to bother you before morning coffee. It’s just that we got a report from Valhalla and we thought you would like to know.”

Badrock resisted the urge to sigh and waved his hand. He kind of didn’t want to know what was going on with that motley crew. He had enough files to shift through and try to piece together. He didn’t need something catastrophic to be reported to him before morning coffee. And calamity just seemed to follow those Sim soldiers. Just going over the reports written about their retired armor was bad enough. It was a wonder it was still functioning honestly.

“Well, Medical Officer … Um, Super Private First Class Frank DuFresne sent in a report this morning,” said McKay, ready to continue as he tried to dissect a real report out of the lackadaisical and floral language DuFresne used in his reports. He was half surprised that it hadn’t come on decorative stationary honestly.

Then again, it might have. This was an emailed copy.

Badrock put up a hand, already past his stupidity limit for that morning, “That … can’t be his real title. It just can’t. There isn’t even a _Super_ class.”

“Well … it’s officially on his file. As well as a few hundred or so letters for the request,” said McKay. “He used some very nice decorative stationary I might add.”

Badrock groaned at this, cover his eyes with a hand, before he took a deep breath and mumbled, “Just … continue.”

“Well, the medic reported back. He is glad that they actually have water at this site instead of only ketchup and mustard packets,” said McKay, starting off with the report.

“What do you mean he's glad for water?” groused the man. They had a well system in Blood Gulch. Right?

“No idea,” said McKay. “He then goes into how peaceful and beautiful the waterfall is. He even has a short poem which I can read. He-hum:

_Water is blue,_

_Blood is red._

_If they mix together,_

_They get light red instead-_

“Stop,” moaned Badrock, ready to drown himself in his morning coffee, “Just get on with the report. For fucks sake, I already feel stupider.”

McKay, trying not to sound disappointed at the miss opportunity to practice reading poetry to a superior, continued in rapid succession, “Well, apparently one sim soldier is already on suicide watch; another is trying to murder the other; they may have fully functional cyborg in the valley now building equipment; there are apparently one and a half Blues now in Blue base; one of the Red's might be converting due to said lover's spat; and another one is getting a boob job … or something.”

Badrock actually dropped his pen.

“What … in Sam-hell? Its been what? Maybe a day and a half? Three days? What the hell is going on? And what do you mean by boob job and Blues?” said Badrock, three seconds from frothing at the mouth. He really did need his morning coffee to have a semblance of function as a human being.

Folding his hands behind his back, trying to stand up straighter, McKay looked to the floor, embarrassed, “I have no idea, sir. That's the most we could gather from the report … given it was all written in poetry verses.”

Badrock moaned and turned around in his chair. Sim soldiers. Why did it have to be Sim soldiers?

“What would you like us to do, sir?” interrupted Sumner, glad she had won that round of rock-paper-sissors. Just watching McKay semi-read that report had been painful … and hilarious. Yes, she was planning on laughing her ass off the moment they were out of hearing range.

Waving his hand in the air, unable to turn around, Badrock grumbled, “Just … let them kill each other for now. It would be to lucky if any of the actually succeeded anyway. We have bigger problems ... Like finding the Director. We need to find him before he gets away with everything. I still don't know how those fools let him escape! We were this close!”

Nodding, both the soldier's in white couldn't help but agree.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s alive! Sorry, it’s been so long. I couldn’t decide how to end this fic. I finally got an epiphany and I have decided how to end this bad boy. Its only been what … a year? I regret nothing. Regardless, I made Doc somewhat competent in this. There is no way they would all still be alive if he didn't actually know some of his medical training.


	15. Nothing Like a Hitler Stash

A moan echoed through the room.

No, it wasn't zombies … the author is entirely too lazy for an AU like that, but it was something just as scary: Grif was waking up from his _medically induced_ nap and he wasn't the least bit rested. In fact, he was sure he was going to puke.

Moaning again, Grif flopped a hand over his unprotected head, trying to block out the florescent lighting that seemed to be penetrating right down into his brain.

Huh? When did he take his helmet off?

Opening his eyes to look at his patchy skin, the next important question hit him.

When had he … painted his nails?

Beadily looking at the glittery _orange?_ nail polish, he noticed the next inconsistency. He was actually in the new base's medical bay and that in itself was a downright oddity. Generally, if he gets injured, Sarge would just leave him where he lay. Grif would then wake up a few hours later dizzy from dehydration or blood loss. No one, well except maybe Simmons, would even go through the effort of dragging his heavy ass to a medical bed for that matter take off his helmet so he wouldn't suffocate in it in case the power pack died.

Frowning, the next inconsistency presented itself to him as someone stood over him: Huh? Someone was actually minding him. Too bad … they were purple.

Grif groaned again and covered his face with both of his hands, hoping to block out the world. This was not happening. Doc couldn't be caring for him because if that idiot medic was, he just as well stop breathing now and stop wasting everyone's time.

“Good morning Grif. Or should I say afternoon? Good to finally have you with us,” came Doc's sickeningly chipper voice.

Sighing, knowing there was likely no escape, Grif groaned, “Hey, Doc. Am I dead?”

“No, silly,” said the medic in an ever-cheery tone. “You are very much alive … even though I still don't know how that is medically possible.”

Deciding that he was safer away from Doc, the orange soldier decided to sit up, murmuring, “Yeah … well, I'll just be leaving before you accidentally fucking kill me.”

Noticing what was happening almost immediately, the medic tried to warn his newest patient, “Wait, Grif, you have just gone through surgery. Perhaps it isn't the smartest thing to sit up-”

Despite Doc's immediate warning, the soldier gave a dry cry and fell back onto the bed instantly, pain running all the way up and down his chest. It was as if someone had gutted him from his collar bone to his crouch.

“What … the … fuck,” whined Grif, now refusing to even twitch. “Why am I in agony and … who the fuck did my nails? Is Donut here?”

Donut's head popped into his vision a second later, the lightish red soldier likely smiling behind his helmet.

“Well, of course I am silly,” said Donut in his usual flirtatious tone. “I sensed that someone needed their hand held and came right away!”

“Yes,” agreed Doc cheerily as he hovered over the whining patient, fluffing the starchy pillow under the squinting soldier's head. “He held your hand the whole time you moaned in agony.”

“And what moaning we did,” added Donut. “I couldn't just let you moan alone in bed.”

Grif resisted the urge to moan in horror.

“And since I was already here, I did you nails. Isn't it a nice color? It really brings out the color of your eyes,” added Donut, far too proud of himself. “I couldn't have you debut without a little glam. I also shaved your legs, pits and back for you. You are welcome! I almost had to take a weed wacker to the bushes if you know what I mean, but Private Donut was not dissuaded from a little pruning. It took a little rassling, but now you have a pleasant Hitler stash as they call it. Threatening and flirty both a the same time like it should be for girls.”

Grif glared as best as he could without moving. Strangling someone would be considered moving, right?

“What the fuck are you talking about Donut? Stop inhaling your bath soaps,” groaned the soldier before he turned to the medic and growled. “And Doc, I need painkillers... _now_. I don't care if you predictably overdose and kill me with them. I can barely breath.”

“Oh, that's probably just the extra weight on your chest,” said the medic in a peppy manner. “I'm sure that will take a while to get used to. As for the painkillers. Sorry, about that, some people don't believe in it. Like Sarge!”

Grif sighed, wondering if he could face-palm hard enough to knock himself out and end his agony.

“After the first day, Sarge refused to give you any more,” continued the medic. “He said this pain was to prepare you for child birth and other painful agonies that a woman has to go through. Like plucking your eyebrows and dancing in high heels or getting paid lower wages than men while you suffer under the famed glass ceiling.”

“Pff, I don't know what they're whining about,” interjected Donut. “Glass ceilings are totally in this season. Everybody wants them.”

Covering his face with a hand, the soldier wondered if this was some kind of torture technique of Sarges, leaving him alone with these two. He couldn't even nap properly here with those two bickering over him … Wait? Glass ceiling, chest weight? Hitler stash? How did he even get injured? The last thing he remembered he was trying to take a nap on the medical bed and then … wait, was that Lopez's cooler on the floor? Was that blood on the lid?

Eyes going wide, a sinking feeling forming in his gut, the man ignored the agony and Doc's pushing hands as he sat up, immediately ripping the starchy sheets off of himself. He was greeted by the sight of bandages over his higher chest … and groin. He immediately noticed, even through the still slightly bleeding bandages, that there were now two bumps on his chest … and that he was missing a distinctive bulge between his legs.

The scream that followed could even be heard by Simmons across the canyon, the man shivering as a chill swept up his spine and he couldn't help but cry out, “Not my fault!” to no one in particular.

…

“Uh, Grif, I might not be the best medic, but even I am quite sure you shouldn't be up,” came Doc in a persistent tone as he tried to take Grif's free arm again. The orange soldier merely pushed him weakly away, gritting his teeth in determination.

He … was … going … to … kill … that … cockbite.

Grif, slowly making his way to the base's exterior, panted as he leaned against the wall and glared at the jeep in the sun. Sarge and Lopez were likely outfitting it with something ridiculously stupid no doubt.

“What the fuck did you do to me?!” all but screamed Grif as he weakly clung to a wall. His brow sweating as he struggled to continue standing.

Looking up from his perch over Lopez as the mech worked on the backup jeep, the commanding officer chuckled, “Well, if it isn't sleeping beauty. We were taking bets on how long it would take until you died. Seems we all lost … everyone bet you would be dead within the first day. He-he.”

“That's not true Sarge,” piped up Donut. “Doc said he would wake just fine and I said that a kiss from his true love would wake him.”

“Well, Simmons isn't here and apparently it was none of us. He-he … wait, that didn't come out right,” said Sarge, his laugh dying in his throat while Lopez actually chuckled in a robotic way.

Grif merely touched his lips for a moment, looking sickened. They did WHAT? Fucking cock bites.

“Yeah, that was too bad. I even put on cherry chapstick for it,” said Donut, digging Grif's mental grave deeper. “In fact, we were thinking about going to go ask the Blue guy.”

Dropping his hand from his lips, Grif now was trying to ignore his double vision, growled, “Wait? What? You guys seriously didn't … Do you mean Caboose? The team killer?”

“Yeah,” continue Donut, “but I had to tell him about the sand and all those places it gets … and Tucker … so I forgot to ask him, but I can head right over. You know what they say about kissing and telling. Its good for you and up to three.”

Grif was almost sad when Simmons didn't pipe up, telling Donut that he was saying it wrong. Instead, he turned his attention back to Sarge, wanting to get this done before his legs gave out … or he died. Fuck, he was probably dying.

“What the hell did you do to me, Sarge?! Did you … did you give me boobs?” growled Grif, his legs ready to give out at any second. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

“I also gave you a uterus,” corrected Sarge with a chuckle. “So, now Command is right: you are a girl. The weaker, whinier sex. In fact, nothing's really changed for you Grif. Now your outsides matched your insides, weak and doughy.”

Nails digging into the wall, the man (woman?) trying to ignore the stupid nail polish he had on, Grif groaned out, “And why the fuck did you do that?! That doesn't change anything!”

“It fills our need for employee diversity,” said Sarge, chuckling again. “Plus, we can finally fix your female problem … by requesting for command to change you into a man. A good old fashion sex change. He-he. Then, if you survive the surgery, I can go back to hating you as god intended.”

Grif fumbled for the right words, the right curses, the correct words to correlate the depths of his rage inducing hate. Instead, he screamed and was going to run forward and punch his CO in the face. Yes, it would be work, but ever since the girl escapade, he found his was too angry to be lazy. Not that his rage kept him on his feet, the Hawaiian only got a few feet into the grass before his eyes rolled in the back of his head and he passed out, crumpling to the ground like a crushed soda can.

For a moment, everyone stood there awkwardly, just waiting for Grif to get back to his feet or at least to crawl forward until he was clawing at Sarge's leg. Thus, after a minute of staring, Sarge finally spoke, “Huh. Must of passed out.”

Another moment of silence followed.

“Well, it good to see he's adapting already to being the weaker sex. He-he. Passing out like a girl,” said Sarge as he turned to Lopez. “Lopez, take Grif back inside. We don't want the Blues stealing are women. He-he. Who else is going to clean and take the mental abuse?”

Lopez, though a robot certainly didn't need to, sighed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating sooner. I was kind of stuck on this chapter. I didn't know if I actually want Grif to be a girl. Then, I just said fuck it, it will be hilarious and awkward this way and thus we have an update. XD


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